


To Play the Devil

by TheWaylandSmith



Series: The Wandering Devil [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Complete, Post-War, Wordcount: Over 150.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 156,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWaylandSmith/pseuds/TheWaylandSmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immortality is not all it's cracked up to be. At least not when the only other immortal around is your worst enemy and the closest thing to a friend you have left. The war ended over a hundred years ago and Harry Potter and Tom Riddle have each been enjoying the quiet life, whilst politely ignoring each other. However, war is coming. AU. Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Play the Devil

  **To Play the Devil**

_Me only cruel immortality_

_Consumes ..._

_Tithonus,_ by Lord Alfred Tennyson

**March, 2150 AD.**

Andreas rubbed his hands together, trying to warm his fingers, as he looked out over the battlements of the city wall. Mist was curling upwards from the fields leaving a silvery sheen over the waving grasses. He wrapped his cloak tighter around him and began tapping his feet on the stones as the cold crept through his heavy boots.

"Quiet night," said a voice behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder and gave a nod of agreement, "It is at that, Anya. I didn't know you were on guard too."

"I think everyone is. Some idiot kicked up a fuss at the citadel," she muttered, pulling a flask from her pocket and taking a swig. "Want some? It'll keep out the chill."

"We shouldn't," Andreas said after a moment's hesitation, "what if something does happen?"

"Come on, what's going to happen? It'll be fine," she said with a snort. She leant on the battlements beside him, pulling her golden cloak tighter around her.

"Fine, but just the one …" he said, giving her a small grin as she passed him the flask. He had almost raised it to his lips when he paused, squinting out into the night. "What's that?"

"Where?" Anya asked, peering out across the misty fields. "I can't see anything."

"There," he pointed as something slithered through the grasses making them sway to and fro.

"It's probably just a fox or something," she said, dismissing it, "now are you going to take that drink or what?"

He raised the flask to his lips again took a gulp. He shivered as the burning taste of strong liquor ran down his throat. "Thanks," he said passing it back to her.

"My pleasure. How, um, how would you like to go and see something at the theatre this weekend?" She asked, a little faster than usual, glancing out over the fields, away from him.

"Yeah, that would be nice," he said and glanced down at his hands as he dangled them over the edge of the wall. He looked again. Something was scaling the wall. "Anya! Get back. Sound the alarm!" He ripped his wand from his holster. He sliced his wand through the air and hurled a blasting curse at the creature. The red curse sent it flying. There was a glimpse of serrated teeth and long, multi-jointed legs before it plunged out of sight. "Daemons!"

"Oh scheiße," she swore. " _Incendio_!" An orange ball of fire blossomed from her wand flying out into the fields. The mists glowed with the fire before it struck dry grass and flames leapt upwards. The flames flickered and the light from them played over the creatures which were surging forwards through the grasses. Skinless hounds; praying-mantis like creatures which skittered forwards, mandibles clicking; hammer-headed daemons with maces and blades of bone; slithering serpents with dozens of eyes; pale, bird-headed men whose shoulder blades sprouted writhing tentacles.

Anya ran down the steps and back towards the city as from along the wall tops fireballs shot into the night like tiny comets. Andreas pushed his helm back onto his head, loosening his sword in its sheath as he began to shoot curses through the battlements.

The great, iron bells of the city boomed out a warning as the daemons surged forwards.


	2. Remember Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finds that even the most usual of days can become unusual when he receives a visitor.

**Remember Me**

The third of March was beautiful that year. Harry could hear the birds chirping in the trees surrounding the meadow as he laid the flowers on the worn, granite boulder. It seemed unlikely that there was much underneath it anymore, but he still came. Meadowsweet and heather, simple flowers, wild flowers. He leant against the boulder Her body had hardly seemed to weigh a thing when he had carried it there after the battle, after the bargain. He had buried her on his own amid the waving grasses and placed the boulder over the grave. He was the only one who had ever visited it, or ever would.

He turned away from the great, grey, stone and walked across the field. Tears ran down his face as they always did, but he did not wipe them away. They were good, clean things.

He shivered as he passed through the wards. They needed touching up, bit by bit he could feel them unravelling. Year after year he left them, more out for their sentimental value than for any practical purpose. It might have been better to let them dissolve. Nothing is as unnoticeable as the non-existent. He span on the balls of his feet wincing as he vanished with a loud crack.

The shop was as quiet as ever as he appeared back inside it. He stretched and picked up the keys. Opening the door he began to carry out the baskets, filling them with the fruit and goods for the day. He glanced up at the sign hanging above the door, the words _Tom's Shop founded 2016_ **,** were plainly and simply emblazoned upon it, gold on green. The paint was new and fresh, though it needed a coat of varnish. So many little jobs, so much time. It was something for tomorrow, or the day after. He sighed, straightening up to greet the vicar and her wife as they passed by.

"Hello Tom," she said, smiling "lovely weather isn't it?"

"Beautiful. Much planned today?"

"Oh Sally and I are just off to help with some of the lambing. Will we see you in Church this week?"

"You know I never come," he grinned, it was a long standing joke by now: her father used to ask the same question, and his father before him come to that. They were a dedicated tribe, Harry had to give them that.

"I _know_ you never come, but my father always said never to give up. To give up is a terrible sin, he used to say, God rest him."

"Oh it's not as bad as you might think," he said. It cost nothing to be polite to her, she meant well in any case. "Still, good luck with the lambs. If you see Ted remind him about the order."

"Will do. Bye for now."

He watched them fondly as they walked down the road. A sweet couple if a touch too well meaning.

Ten minutes later Harry had settled back in a large, well-worn armchair behind the counter in the shop. A cup of tea perched on the counter. The shop bell jangled loudly. He glanced up from his book _: Wonderings and Wanderings in the Other World: The Theory of Dimensional Travel. A Collection of Essays in Memory of H. Granger-Weasley._ In the front of the dust jacket there is a photo of an old, old woman, with long white hair which seems to burst from her head like an explosion of thistledown smiling outwards.

The man who entered the shop was painfully ill at ease. The hint of a wand at his wrist suggested he might be more than simply a nervous tourist. His eyes flicked from side to side, scanning for threats, assessing, cautious. A thick bristling, black, moustache shook angry spears of hair from his upper lip. Harry gave him a cursory glance before deciding. The man was probably an auror, or one of the "enforcers", possibly a soldier back from suppressing the rising in Jersey. "Plain" clothes, well by wizard standards in any case.

"Good morning sir," he said brightly. "Anything I can do for you today?"

"Are you the proprietor of this establishment sir?" The man replied, the businesslike tone at odds with his voice which came out as almost a growl.

"Yes … can I help you?" Harry slid his wand out into his palm, concealing the movement behind the counter

"We believe so. The Minister wants a word. Though," he paused for an instant uncertainly, "I fear I may be looking for your father. Is he around?" The man glanced meaningfully towards the back of the shop.

"No, just me, I'm older than I look," Harry replied brightly, the man frowned as if he disapproved of people looking young.

"Your name sir?" He asked, formality incarnate as he drew a small pad of red paper from his robes. Words in black ink crawled over it, twisting and shifting.

"Tom."

"And your second name?"

"You've come looking for a man and you don't know what he looks like or his name? You have to be joking," Harry said with a bark of laughter.

"Your name, sir. I need to verify your identity."

"Nemo. Are you happy now? Tom Nemo. Though if you actually _think_ about it you might realise that I could tell you that almost anything was my name. How about this: my name is Jeremiah Obadiah Jackanory Jones. Contrary to appearances I am a seven foot tall man of African descent with one leg and an eye patch?" Harry put down his book. It had promised to be such a lovely morning.

"Levity is not appropriate, sir. Would you mind signing here to complete the process." It is a statement, not a question. Harry could not help the sneaking suspicion the man was not accustomed to people refusing Ministry's officials.

"Would you like it in blood? Or will a biro do?"

"A biro will be adequate."

"Thanks _so_ much. I hate the sight of blood on an empty stomach, puts me quite off my food." Harry signed with a flourish, smiling slightly more than was appropriate at the name he had given.

The ministry official scanned the paper for a few seconds, tapped it with his wand and folded it neatly before placing it inside a pouch at his waist. Harry waited behind the counter drumming his fingers on the wood as the man pulled out a thick, parchment envelope addressed in emerald ink and handed it over.

"Why not send an owl?" Harry asked, ripping it open.

The official's eyebrows rose, "We haven't used owls since the Scumthorpe incident, thirty years ago."

"Oh sorry, slipped my mind. Give me half a tick while I read this and I'll give you a reply," Harry said, eyes skimming the parchment.

Harry suppressed a smirk as the man's eyes bulged at the implication that the answer might be no.

The letter itself was short, bulked out by the thick parchment.

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_You are requested to attend upon his most sublime and infallible grace the Minister for Magic of Great Britain and its empire upon the fourth of March at two p.m. precisely at the Ministry. Others in attendance may include the Right Honourable Professor emeritus of the Higher Arts, His Lordship; the Head of the Department for Magical Immigration, Tiberius Nott; the Chief Warlock of the Wizangamot, Livia Malfoy; the Head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement, Algernon Moncrieff, and the Principal of the Unspeakables._

_You are hereby warned that to bring any offensive items into the chamber will result in severe penalties. This includes wands._

_You are hereby also warned that to refuse this invitation will be regarded as an act of treason._

_Send your reply with the messenger, Gerald Filius Peasgood, Enforcer of the Crimson Band. A prompt response is expected._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Ursula Urquhart_

_Junior Assistant Undersecretary to the Minister_

_Holder of the Hereditary Order of Merlin Third Class._

Harry suppressed a sour taste rising in his throat, his fingers dug into the parchment, crumpling the stiff material. "I thought I'd been forgotten," he muttered to himself, closing his eyes, fingers clasped tightly around the ball of parchment. "Why the hell put me with _'His Lordship_ '? They must either have gone mad or decided that the Apocalypse is upon us and we should start early."

"Sorry sir?"

"Don't worry, talking to myself. Bad habit, gets worse as you get older," Harry said. He pinched the bridge of his nose between my forefinger and thumb. "Tell them that I'll be there." It had looked as if it was going to be such a nice day too. The enforcer turned to go, obviously eager to leave the shop. Harry smiled thinly. The shop bell jangled and the man was gone.

It is commonly thought by wizards that nothing would be simpler than living amongst the muggles. However, magic too easily becomes a part of everyday life. Harry had lived in the same village long enough that three generations of muggles had known him and yet accepted him as a young man. See how that man's eye twinkles as he pulls the coin from behind your ear? Watch him closely, you can't see how he does it? Well then, it must be magic. A corner shop in a village where almost everyone shops at the local supermarket? How does it survive, the owner must have the Devil's own luck … and so life goes on.

Harry packed quickly. An old rucksack soon bulged with sleeping bag, tent, food, clothes, a book or two. He dragged the wares back inside. He left out the perishables with a note to Meg, the vicar, that she could take them and give them out as she wanted. He scowled realising that he hadn't varnished the sign and shrugged. He would simply have to make a new one when he got back it would be warped as hell. There was just time to pop over to the pub to ask one of the lads to look after the shop …

* * *

The Dragon's Gulch (a name which none of the locals were either particularly sure how the pub had acquired, or were very certain as to the meaning of) was not particularly busy when the tall dark-haired man came in. The barman paused in polishing the already dazzlingly, clear, glass in his hand.

"Hi there Tom. How you doing? Didn't expect to see you in till later," the barman smiled before turning to put the glass back on the shelf. He had never been able to meet his friend's eyes for long.

"David, just the man I was looking for. Would you do me a favour?"

"Sure. As long as it doesn't involve any chickens this time …" he dragged himself out of his reverie. "What is it you want though?"

"Just keep an eye on the shop for a bit. Make sure there aren't any break ins and so on. Though if you see anything going on there don't go over, I wouldn't want you getting hurt. Here are the keys if you'll take them."

"Aye, I will. Are you off on holiday then?"

"Yes, don't know how long for though, could be quite some time. Oh and feed the cat if she turns up would you?" the man asked, slapping himself on the forehead.

"You know as well as any that I wouldn't let Ginny starve. Have a good trip mate."

"Thanks, take care."

So it was that Harry Potter stepped out of the Dragon's Gulch, walked quickly to the edge of the village and was never seen there again by any living man. For years the barman tended to the shop, and his son after him even took it over.

Stories were occasionally told about the original owner, Tom Nemo. It was said he had turned up out of the blue in the early days of the twenty first century. He had carried a bag filled with treasures from around the world and a past he would never speak about. The stories were always, as the adults pointed out, impossible. One story told how he had met a cat who yowled at the Moon for a month until he tricked her into only yowling when the Moon asked her to, out of politeness; another told how he had once tried to sew on his buttons with string for extra strength but ended up snapping the buttons and went around with his clothes tied together for months.

There were other tales too, stories of how in the middle of a blizzard he had rescued a young girl stuck on the mountains; how those who did him favours found their luck strangely improved, of the young woman who had been cast out by her family for having a child out of wedlock, but shared her last few pennies with a strange young man and had been given a bag of golden coins and a necklace set with a fiery ruby.

Children when afraid at night would call on "Old Tom" to protect them against the nightmares and the walking folk of the night. It was notable that the church service there was unique in always giving up a prayer for "Old Tom".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: By the way, all the idioms, styles of speech and so on and so forth which might be expected to change after a hundred years have changed. I'm just translating for you.


	3. The Ministry of Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry pays a visit to the Ministry and meets a couple of old friends. The journey begins.

  **The Ministry**

Harry appeared on the snowy, marble in the atrium of the Ministry with a crack, a swish and an attempt at an engaging smile. The security guard stared at him in open mouthed astonishment. Harry stifled a grin. "Good morning," he said, "do you mind telling me where the Minister's office is?" He checked his watch. It was utterly unnecessary, he had timed taking the invisibility cloak off to the second to coincide with the crack of magic. "I'm a little late for an appointment."

"Um …" the man hesitated. "It's just that way, sir. Go past the fountain of the Empire's Sacrifice and straight ahead. You can't miss it. I, I just need to check the wards …" The feeling that there was something he should have asked played across his features. Harry gave a nod of thanks, spun on his heel and strode off down the hall, coat billowing behind him.

Looking about him he had to admit the current Ministry had style. It was ostentatious and power hungry, but undoubtedly stylish. White pillars curving like gulls' wings along the all. Their edges tapering to knife edge slices of rock. Reversed flying buttresses, beautiful, impractical and pointless. The vaulted roof was ornamented with living trees, each tree representing one of the lords of the reformed Wizangamot. Around the trees painted unicorns, dragons and griffins milled. The lack of phoenixes was yet another sign of how times had changed.

Harry gave himself a mental pat on the back for distracting the guard. Handing over his wand would have raised too many problems. An impossible apparition was bound to attract less comment than the appearance of one of the last phoenix wands. Particularly _this_ phoenix wand.

The fountain had changed too. The grim monument of the war years was gone. Instead there was a white obelisk. Words in gold leaf ran around the base: _Those who have fallen shall not be forgotten. They died for freedom. One land. One blood. One magic._ Names circled on the pillar, some from the war. A few caught Harry's eye as they spun past: _Pansy Parkinson_ , _Blaise Zabini_ , _Ginny Weasley_. A second later and they were lost in the maelstrom of bronze letters. He bit back the taste of bile in his throat. Remembering them together, undifferentiated. It was brilliant, brilliant and callous. He sank into the crowd, swallowed up in the tide of people as it ebbed and flowed around him.

Fifteen minutes late, to the dot, he pushed open the door to the antechamber of the Minister's office. Meeting the icy glare of the woman behind the desk he decided it would have been better not to enter at all. The woman was squat and middle aged; her neatly coiffed, brown, hair was threaded with grey and loomed over her head. Her clothes were regulation Ministry robes, save for a sprig of plumeria flowers at the breast. She had the engrained scowl of a bad tempered cat. Her wand drummed on the desk. From her perfectly ironed robes to her impeccable nail varnish she bespoke efficiency and competence.

"Mr Potter?" She asked in clipped tones as if she regarded his presence as a mortal sin.

Harry grimaced, "Who else? I presume that you are Ms Urquhart?"

" _Mrs_. You are late," each word was punctuated as if struck from a typewriter. "The meeting was set to start fifteen minutes ago."

"Was? _Please_ don't tell me I delayed them."

"Was. You have not delayed them. The Minister re-scheduled the meeting five minutes after the message was sent to you. The room is mostly empty. You may go in if you wish," she smiled sweetly.

"How fortunate. I'll just go in." He took out his irritation on the doors, barging through them. They were so ornate that they might well have been lifted from Buckingham palace before the fire.

They certainly opened impressively enough, though disappointingly shut with a soft click. There was one other man in the room. He was seated towards the far end of the mahogany table. A glass of water sat beside him as he leaned back in his chair. He held a book in his right hand obscuring the majority of his face. His hair, a brown so dark it was almost black, was neatly combed, and he held himself with a lazy grace. A hand snaked out and snagged a biscuit from a nearby plate.

"It has been some time, Harry." The voice was unmistakable, cold, cultured and deadly. Harry took a step backwards, his body working on instinct. His wand appeared in his hand so fast that it might have been summoned. Even now he never knew whether to be prepared for something or not. The memory of the incident in Istanbul flashed through his mind and he took another step backwards.

"Tom," Harry replied. "Long time, no see." He sat, pointedly taking a seat as far away as physically possible. His wand stayed drawn, albeit stowed under the table.

"Your seat is here," replied the other. He pointed to the space opposite from him with one long finger. "Apparently the Minister is very fussy as to where we all sit."

"What, even you? I'm surprised you aren't at the head of the table," answered Harry, refusing to move.

"Even I. Come and have a biscuit. They are not poisoned. In fact they are quite nice. Do leave the chocolate ones though, I'm quite partial to them. Don't just sit there and sulk, it is bad form. Worse it's a sign of weakness. Our old friend has quite the deck of cards up his sleeve, do not give him another."

"Really?" asked Harry, reluctantly moving to sit opposite the man.

"Oh yes. You don't think just anyone could keep _me_ waiting around do you? Either he is very stupid and intends to kill us here, in which case he will fail painfully, or he has a plan for us."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Something of a false dichotomy there wouldn't you say? What if he's bluffing?"

"He's not. You really haven't been keeping up with the real world have you? Have a biscuit and be a good boy. Whatever this charade is about we'll know soon enough."

A retort died in Harry's throat as the doors swung open again and an old man, with silver hair strode in. His robes were heavy and elaborately embroidered. A thick, silver chain of office hung around his neck. A fur cloak billowed around his shoulders. He had changed more than Harry could have guessed.

He was flanked by two identical women in dark, sleek robes, each with long, white-gold, hair. They had high cheekbones, and a certain frozen beauty. Both of them bore the blood of the Malfoy's with the usual pride. The only difference between them was that the lady on the man's left wore a cowled cloak.

Two men followed: one a huge, hulking figure with close cropped black hair and a broken nose; the second was a small sandy haired gentleman who wetted his lips with his tongue every few moments. The latter's hands twisted at the black leather gloves he carried. Mrs Urquhart entered last, taking a place in the corner behind a small desk. She held a quill pen ready over a notepad.

Harry's companion failed to look up from his book. Finally, once the newcomers were seated he shut it with a snap. For a moment Harry expected him to speak. Instead he seemed to be examining the grain of the wood. The silence stretched out, the room hung on his whim. At last the Minister coughed, sat upright and steepled his hands, thin papery skin stretching over the knuckles. A golden ring glinted on his left hand.

The man's head snapped up from his examination of the table, his voice colder than a clear midwinter day. "You dare to keep Lord Voldemort waiting, Draco?"

The Minister's companions shuddered at the name. Harry could not honestly blame them. Draco replied evenly, his voice soft and pleasant, "Still playing the same old tune my lord?"

Voldemort, or Tom as Harry insisted upon calling him curled his lip derisively. "I could break you with a thought. Remember, you belong to _me_ ," his hand flicked towards his wrist.

Draco chuckled dryly, "You can't threaten me, my lord." He tapped his chest weakly. "Just try your trick. It _will_ kill me and this old thing will give out, it's struggling enough as it is. _I'm_ not afraid of death though. In the end it comes to us all."

"So, give me a reason not to kill you. Give _any_ of us a reason not to kill you."

"I'm sure some of you could kill me before I drew my wand," Draco answered mildly. "However, you _won't_. If I die this government crumbles. The people want a soft leader. If they get one the Lords of Europe will sweep in and destroy us. You may not be able to die, but can you be beaten? The French will, I'm sure, be happy to imprison you for the rest of your existence. I hear they've built a prison even ghosts can't escape. Apparently it was built specially for you. They still want Normandy and Brittany back."

Tom considered it for a second, "For the moment then you live. What news do you bring?" He waved his hand towards the Minister _permitting_ him to speak.

Smiling pleasantly Draco gestured to the rest of the room. "Allow me first to introduce everyone. I fear apart from me only a few of you have acquaintances in common." He ignored the look of boredom clouding Harry's face and pointed to the cloaked woman on his left. "This charming lady is the Head of the Unspeakables. I am afraid to say that this is not the face which she would naturally possess. It belongs to my lovely grand-daughter, Livia," the other woman nodded. "Our large friend is Tiberius Nott, his companion is Algernon Moncrieff. I would advise you to make sure he never has any reason to ask you any questions. As to our other companions," he nodded to Harry and Tom. "They are rather reclusive individuals. You have all heard of his lordship. Our other friend is somewhat forgotten," he smirked, "the one time terrorist, Harry Potter."

A few eyebrows were raised in surprise at his presence. Algernon and Tiberius seemed puzzled by the name, as if they could not quite remember where they had heard it before.

"Thank you for making sure we can all be friends, but would you actually get on with it?" Harry inquired, drumming his fingers on the table.

"Very well. Livia, my dear, would you like to explain the problem?"

"Certainly, Minister …"

"And please make it short. I have some groceries to sell and I wouldn't like to keep my customer's waiting," Harry interrupted again. He had never felt that politeness was something which enemies really needed to receive. If anything it probably made them feel justified if you were rude. Livia glowered at him and he threw his best Gilderoy Lockhart smile back at her.

" _As_ I was saying," she continued with a glance around the table, "the situation is this: the war with Argentina has occupied the majority of our forces. Many of the rest are still putting down the rebellion in Ireland. Meanwhile the Lords of Europe appear to be reaching a consensus that war is their only option. The descendants of the exiled muggleborns and the current political refugees are stirring up discontent.

"Meanwhile, the High Council in Prague feels that we need to be brought in line. That our aggression must be curbed. At the moment they are trying to persuade the members that war is necessary. We need to swing the balance against this. If we can make them delay long enough that a peace treaty with Argentina can be ratified we may have a chance of," she paused, searching for the right words, " _peace_ and _security_."

"So? Where do we fit into this?" Harry had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he waited for her answer.

"One of the most influential of the hereditary members of the council is the Grand Princess of Baden-Württemberg. She has some pro-pureblood sympathies. Currently she is courting both sides. Many of the lesser members are hanging on her decision. We are sending the pair of you as envoys." She announced it as if it ought to be a great honour. For a moment Harry froze in horror.

"No. Just no," Harry said firmly

"Spare me the theatrics," Draco sighed. "I know you hate us, but honestly you don't have a choice. The oath you swore with our friend over there pretty much forces you to obey the Ministry. If you do resist ... well that little village you were in might just suffer an accident. The two of you are virtually unkillable, and secondly _unmissable_ should the flames of war actually start up." He paused, obviously taking pleasure in speaking to Harry as if he were a child. "In other words we can afford to lose you and we don't want to risk anyone else. Remember if they win they'll either kill you two or lock you up forever. Also … well I'll leave it to Livia," he waved his hand at her to let her carry on.

Harry noticed two pink spots high on her cheeks. He supposed that as the grand-daughter of a dictator and one of the highest ranking officials in an autocratic state she was not used to being interrupted. "While the Princess has some pureblood leanings, she also has a large muggleborn population. She has a slight problem, recently a number of muggleborns, half-bloods and even some muggles have disappeared in the vicinity of the northern part of the Black Forest. Among them there was one Ambrose Fairechilde, great-grandson of Hermione Granger-Weasley and Ronald Weasley. Part of your task would be to lend your unique expertise and prowess to finding those who have gone missing. It will help to calm the public; win us favour with the Princess, and give her more leeway to vote against war."

Harry flopped back into his seat as if his strings had been cut. _Help the government? Merlin help me_.

Across the table Tom scowled. "You expect _me_ to help?"

Draco looked at him, grey eyes shining like wet steel. "Consider this, _my Lord_ , this is magic that no-one has been able to understand. It is riddle to be solved. Also, do you really want Potter to face this alone? If that does not move you remember the French would be delighted if we gave them free reign to hunt for you. So, ultimately, yes."

* * *

_The Black Forest – Several Months Ago_

The wind moved through the trees drawing rattling breaths from the branches. Dark moss crawled over the wood and rocks. Those places bathed in the few stabs of ochre light were not lightened but intensified, to rich, velvety black.

The first golden leaves were whirling earthwards as if held aloft by invisible pendulums. The backpacker paused and pulled the rucksack from his shoulders, letting it fall to the forest floor with a soft _whumph_. He sighed, closing his eyes and basking in the serenity of the forest. The shade made it a touch cooler than he might have liked, but if anything that in itself was a blessing. The discomforts of this walking holiday had reinvigorated him.

Thirty years working in the city had left him grey and drained. Now, in the first year of his retirement he had rediscovered the fresh flush of excitement and adventure he had buried in exchange for promotion. The bruises and scraped knees acquired on his walks were worn as proud badges of the fact that he was free.

He pulled out a bottle of water and took a drink. The water sparkled with golden light in the sun's rays. It was slightly too warm and tasted like plastic. He grimaced and pulled out the salami from a pocket in the rucksack, wiping his hand on his cotton shirt to get rid of the water. With a large and complicated Swiss Army knife, whose functions were by and large incomprehensible to him, he took a slice and popped the salami into his mouth. The spicy, salty taste bit into his mouth. He wiggled his toes in his boots; the movement was unnoticeable yet indescribably pleasurable.

A branch broke like a gunshot. It was a large branch by the sound of it, _very_ large. It landed with a dull, heavy thump. He spun round, but there was nothing in sight. Shadows stretched from the trees, thick and dark. For a moment he felt as though he was being watched. He peered into the darkness: _Were there wolves in the forest? Bears maybe_. He couldn't remember. No, it simply couldn't be a wolf or anything of the sort, the sound had come from high up. It was probably just an oak dropping a branch or something. Lucky he had not been nearer to it. He shuddered at the thought of being crippled and alone in the forest.

A shadow passed over the trees, blocking out the remaining sunlight. It turned the pleasant twilight into an almost impenetrable gloom beneath the trees. He fumbled in his pack and drew out the map. The thin black lines were barely visible in the twilight and he cursed his stupidity for taking a break when he was so close to the end of that day's walk. Still he could not be far from the campsite. It would not do to become lost in the forest overnight.

The path was still relatively obvious, heaving his rucksack onto his shoulders he began to hurry along it. He dodged overhanging branches and hopped over the network of roots that here and there, criss-crossed the floor of the wood. Twigs snapped under his boots. The first few drops of rain began to fall, bouncing off thick leaves.

A few minutes later he was standing by a ford. Clear water ran over the stream-bed. On the other side stood tangled pines. The trees were dark and foreboding. Their brooding shadows reached towards him, stretching out fingers in the gloaming. The rain gentle, but it was slowly growing heavier.

He dreaded the thought of putting up a tent in this weather. Perhaps there would be a cabin he could rent at the camp site. He fancied the idea of curling up in a proper bed. Maybe there would be a restaurant too. If the rain continued he might have to eat leftovers from lunch, campfires would be no good in this weather.

He swept away beads of rain and cold sweat from his forehead. Rummaging about in the bag he pulled out a clockwork torch. Light blossomed for a moment, yellow and startlingly bright. He set a foot upon the first of the stepping stones. Water sloshed around the tip of his boot. He wobbled for a moment and then shifted his weight to the next. A ripping noise rent the air, it sounded as if a tree was being torn in two. It was long, slow and agonising, the greatest sound of suffering a tree could make.

He slipped, his arms flailed for a moment and his right foot splashed down in the water. The fall was slow but his tailbone thwacked against the rocks of the stream-bed. The cold water had soaked his trousers, boots, socks and in all likelihood his backpack. Difficulties and bruises were good fun in hindsight, but in the moment they were a bloody pain. He swore viciously, struggled upright and trudged out of the river.

The torch was still in his hand and he pulled the lever. It whirred dully, and light sputtered out. There was a figure on the opposite bank. It was visible for only a second: long, slender arms which glistened if coated with wet, black silk, bent towards the ground. The figure was _too_ long. Many jointed limbs stuck out at odd angles as the body twisted. Pieces of what might have been frayed fabric or ragged appendages, bramble-like and gently waved, protruded from it. Legs stretched out, disappearing beyond the light of the torch. In daylight without only a split second to see it he might have tossed away the sight as idle, if horrific fancy; in the gloaming there was no mistake to make. It had been watching him, with beady, crow's eyes.

He tried to cry out, but no sound emerged. He had already screamed without noticing and his lungs no longer had enough air to continue. His limbs were frozen in terror. Across the river he heard a soft sigh of air and then there was a gentle clicking of many claws on stones.

He hesitated struggling to accept it was real. Real or not he ran from it, dropping his rucksack. He ran blindly into the trees. Twigs and leaves whipped him, snapping as he ran. A branch slashed across his forehead, blood dripped down over his eye. Behind him something slid through the branches with a faint, rattling, shiver of noise. He stumbled, falling to the ground. Ahead of him the pine trees stretched on endlessly. He held his breath. There was no sound. Then the long, thick, sting plunged into his back.

* * *

Voldemort pulled out a slim book, bound in black leather, and began to read quietly. His companion leant back silently against the soft, red cushions. The boy had not spoken since the meeting. It was the one thing for which Voldemort was glad. People rarely gave him orders, much less threatened him, at least without their life expectancy dropping to three seconds flat.

The cross-Channel train to Calais was slower than the majority of wizarding transport. However, it provided safe passage through the wards the French had placed around Britain and it was decadently comfortable. He was almost enjoying himself. Decades of peace and comfort had obliterated his once rigidly ascetic lifestyle. He was still carefully moderate in his extravagances but he did indulge himself somewhat. There was little point in being immortal he reasoned, if you did not enjoy it. He sighed wistfully for his elegantly furnished rooms; the jewel box of a library; the cellar full of fine wines, and his selection of shoes.

His delight in wearing shoes was perhaps the vice which Voldemort struggled hardest to keep hidden. Yet he considered it in a sense the perfect reflection of his victory. The body he had taken on during the war had been both terrifying and durable. Unfortunately it had been severely limited when it came to the senses of taste and touch: food had been ashes in his mouth, and while graceful the body's sense of touch was dull and frustrating. It had been a problem he had ultimately failed to iron out.

His current body was almost entirely human and he had quickly rediscovered why many humans felt shoes were a good idea. Once he had begun to wear them he came to feel that they reflected the fact that he had won: now he could enjoy life and that this potential for pleasure outweighed the dangers. His hand brushed over a series of small, delicate and ward frosted vials held in one of the deep pockets of his robe. Comforted by their presence he returned to his book.

"So …" the slow word filtered into the silence breaking through his reverie.

He held up a single finger until he finished the paragraph. Then, slowly closing the book he looked up. "If …" the word sighed between his lips in exasperation, "you really find it necessary to speak, boy, then _stick to parseltongue_ ," he hissed. "I have no desire to let our watchers into our conversation." His hand executed an elegant wave towards the compartment door beyond which two aurors sat on guard.

The 'boy' rolled his eyes, but complied. "Fine. Though you know they could just order me to tell them. My side of the oath does force that. It's your own fault for wanting to be king though. Still, if you're unhappy about it why haven't you killed them? Isn't that your normal style?" Harry replied. He yawned as he watched the dark water outside rush by. If the Ministry had felt showing the passengers the bottom of the English Channel would be interesting they had been very wrong.

"It does not suit my plans."

"Really, or is that you just couldn't manage it? Is that how far you've sunk? Unable to take on a handful of aurors?"

"If you had been in circulation at all you'd know that our guards are probably the most qualified and decorated aurors currently in service. The names Thorbecrombe, Finch and Rosier ring no bells?" Voldemort sneered, as he treated himself to the image of clawing out the boy's throat. Things were so much simpler when you could just kill people for stupidity, or for being irritating, or for trying to kill you. It was not that he took any particular pleasure in murder, he told himself, it was simply the most efficient way of dispatching people.

"None to speak of."

"How many do _you_ believe you could deal with then? I don't see you escaping."

"I don't know half a dozen. Maybe a few more, on my own that is. Depends on the circumstances," Harry replied breezily. "What do you reckon?"

"Oh at least a dozen."

Both men sat back satisfied, convinced their falsehoods had passed undetected and that they had seen through the lies.

Voldemort paused, running through the conversation in his mind. "Why such interest? Do you seek to overthrow the government?"

"Hardly. It isn't as if I could, not with the oath."

"If this is a clumsy attempt to persuade me to release you from your oath then think again." He raised his book higher to indicate that the conversation was at an end. A moment later the idiotic boy was tugging the book down. Bright green eyes stared at him through the ridiculous glasses.

"Listen," the boy's voice grated on Voldemort's nerves. "I don't like being lumped with you any more than you like being lumped with me, but we both know that right now we're the only allies we have. If you want a chance to avoid whatever Malfoy's planning then you need to free me from part of the oath."

Voldemort considered. Then he grinned savagely, Harry sat back sharply and the grin widened. "Very well, under the condition that you alter my oath too, _and_ you have to swear an alternative clause. I will not weaken the rule of three just so that you can go on to break the spell."

Harry grimaced but nodded. "Agreed. What is the oath this time? The same type of bonds as before, I suppose."

"Unless death has suddenly become that much more terrifying for you, then yes," the whisper of parseltongue was hardly audible above the whoosh of the train. Even so Voldemort could sense the two guards trying to listen in outside the door. It was not probable that there was a parselmouth among but you never knew. "Lock the door."

Harry drew his wand and with a complicated series of knots in the air released a pale mauve spell which sunk into the wood of the door without a trace. Twenty other spells from the two of them left the compartment with a faint glow, and the smell of night air and heather. The terms of the oaths were finalised quickly. It was hardly as if either of them had much leverage on the other this time. Necessity makes for interesting bedfellows.

"Temporary vows first then?" Harry asked, carefully avoiding pointing his wand at Voldemort's.

"Absolutely. Then the freeing, then the binding." He made sure to hold Harry's gaze. For all his bluster he did respect the boy.

"I Lord Voldemort," he paused, stiffening his resolve, birth names _were_ important in things of this sort, "formerly Tom Marvolo Riddle, swear that for the next thirty minutes I shall in no way try to harm, incapacitate, capture or kill you, Harry James Potter, son of James and Lily Potter." A pale shimmer of light ran over his body like a skin of water before vanishing.

"I, Harry James Potter, swear that for the next thirty minutes I shall in no way try to harm, incapacitate, capture or kill you, Tom Marvolo Riddle." The magic blossomed across Harry's skin. "And I release you from the unbreakable vow which you swore to me, provided you swear anew within the next half hour and it is to my satisfaction."

Voldemort ground his teeth and mimicked Harry's words.

"Very well then, on with it. I'll be the binder for your oath, you for mine, until or unless we choose to release one another." The lights in the carriage flickered. Magic surged in the air. The blind whipped down, sealing the compartment from sight. The two of them clasped hands.

A gleaming ribbon of ruby fire spiralled from Harry's wand curling around their hands, "Will you, Tom Riddle, never kill, seek to kill or imprison me, through your own power or that of others?"

"I will," Voldemort replied before a tongue of green light curled from his own wand. "Will you, Harry Potter, swear never to seek your own death or the destruction of the horcrux within you?"

"I will," Harry answered. His eyes glittering in the fire light. Ruby crossed emerald once more. "Will you leave two hundred of those to whom I personally offer my protection at any time, unharmed in all matters and all ways as you are sworn to leave me untouched? So long as you have been informed of this protection, and they have not at any time rejected this protection by attacking you, or by word or deed."

"I will." Two green, two red, like tiny, bejewelled serpents, coiled tighter. "Will you never kill, seek to kill or imprison me, through your own power or that of others?" Voldemort waited, fingers trembling.

"I will." Beads of sweat gathered on their brows. The air thrummed with the conjoined spells. "Will you, Voldemort, swear never to seek to conquer any land or government or people upon Earth beyond that which you now rule? On pain of your life and existence in this world?" Harry's mouth, despite the strain of the spell twisted in a smile.

"I will," Voldemort swore bitterly. The desire to carve his name into the legends of every nation in the world had never faded. "And will you, Harry Potter, do your utmost to resurrect me should my flesh fail? Within the span of a single cycle of the Moon after you have discovered the fact? On pain of surrendering your immortal soul to me, and servitude and the absolute surrender of your will and body to the horcrux within you? So long as I give true and correct instructions to enable you to do so," it was Voldemort's turn to smile.

"So I swear."

The magic hummed, shining white light expanded outwards and vanished. They sank back, tiredness overwhelming them instantly. Harry's eyes rolled and he sank into unconsciousness, seconds later Voldemort joined him.

* * *

_The sky flashed and burnt with a sinister umber hue above the battlefield. Drops of rain, filled with red dust from the Sahara, fell like blood upon the fighters. Harry spun on his heel, an unravelling spell leaping from his wand. He moved on without pause, ducking a curse as his previous attack spilled over a Death Eater. Flesh peeled away from the man's body in bloody strings until only his bones were left. Hermione was beside him for a second, her hair, plastered against her forehead by the rain flicking around her as she slashed her wand savagely._

_"There are too many of them, we should withdraw!" Her yell was almost drowned beneath the roar of thunder._

_Fire erupted from his fingertips, guided by his wand, engulfing three of them. "I know. Carry on," he grunted out the words as a silver dart hit his left shoulder eating into the flesh. "He's coming. I can feel it." Rain lashed down drenching them._

_She nodded and danced away into the fighting. Transfigured warriors of grass rose around her, pale green sentinels with paper thin swords. Blood flew from Death Eaters as her warriors spun through the fray. The stalks reformed as blasting curses tore holes through them._

_Harry could feel a pounding in his head, separate from the breaking storm. Far above something darker than the clouds was beginning its descent. He batted away a piercing curse and returned fire before plugging his wand to his shoulder. He sank to the ground behind one of the standing stones within which the Order had been pinned down by the Death Eaters as he drew the dart forth. It came out with an angry explosion of pain, barbs tore the flesh. He winced and tugged his shirt over it, hoping he would not need the arm too much until Poppy could get to it._

_The Death Eaters were pressing closer, using their greater numbers. Some deflected the Order's spells, others pressed home the attack. Colin Creevey went flying, his right eye exploding into droplets of blood and tissue. Harry raised his wand letting a thick spike of shimmering light shoot upwards before he rejoined the others in the fighting._

_One, two, bone-ripper, sidestep, a thrust of power leaving a ragged hole in their shields to be followed up with a nice, wide-bore, cutter. He summoned Colin's body, using it to absorb a deadly, green curse. Harry's jacket smoked in a dozen places where spells had missed by a gnat's whisker as he spun through the melee._

_Ducking under a wand Harry brought his knee up. A Death Eater collapsed, grasping at his groin. A quick slice of the wand finished him off. Another closed the ground between them, hammering at Harry with a bone-breaker more commonly known as the hammer of Tartarus. The spell dug deep welts into the earth sending clods flying as Harry leapt from side to side, awaiting his moment. One strike, more off target than the rest, provided it and a swift reducto crushed the woman's throat. An inferius locked in a battle with one of Hermione's grass guardians went up in flames which leapt to its foe. The grass warrior flamed for a second and leapt onto a Death Eater, enveloping him in fire. An Order member threw herself in the way of a curse meant for Harry. The back of her head liquefied and a swarm of maggots crawled over her corpse, devouring the flesh._

_Harry bit down the taste of bile. He focused his rage into a grey whip. It slashed across a group of advancing inferi turning their rotting flesh to unmoving stone. He sank to his knees, eyes watering as his head pounded. His vision twisted and the standing stones and battling figures were gone. He could see the earth miles below, storm clouds swirled above, a sea of light, fire and noise._

_The reinforcements crashed onto the Death Eaters like wolves upon sheep, finally. Moody must have moved them into position. The sudden attack from their flank tore through the dark robed figures, leaving their battle line sprawling. Harry tore himself away from the mind of the horror approaching through the clouds. Anti-apparition wards blossomed around those already set by the Death Eaters as they tried to flee for a moment. The dark robed figures rallied around a tall man, his blonde hair almost red with blood. He duelled with a flawless intensity, deflecting curse after curse, protecting his associates._

_One of the grass warriors slid across Harry's sight as he pushed himself upright. A spray of blood splashed him from an enemy he'd missed as a sword plunged down into the man's throat. The sky split open. Fighters from both sides were thrown aside as a dark meteor hurtled earthwards, lightning dashed in its wake, though never striking home. It was as if nature rebelled at the Dark Lord's presence. Harry steadied himself against the stone as a wind tore over him. The wards smashed like brittle glass._

_The Dark Lord landed, bare feet touching down lightly. Smoky, black robes swirled around him as his baleful gaze scanned the scattered fighters. He turned, the seven foot tall frame towered over the other combatants who stood or cowered, frozen in terror. His eyes burnt crimson in the alabaster face._

_"Harry Potter."_

_"Voldemort."_

_Around them fighters ran for cover. Even the silver masked Death Eaters ran rather than stand beside their master. Harry straightened his glasses with one hand and drew his second wand. Voldemort followed his movement. Sheathing their phoenix wands the two squared off. Voldemort moved with deadly grace, his steps fluid, wand held lightly in his hand. Harry half stumbling, his clothes caked in dust, blood and the true trophies of battle, stood firm._

_Harry struck first, spinning in a circle his wandtip glowing as he set fire to the rain. A storm of dust, water and fire racing towards his enemy …_

* * *

Harry awoke with a start, sweat pouring from his forehead. He had bitten his tongue and blood filled his mouth. With a grimace he spat it out. He wiped a shaking hand over his clammy skin. Across the compartment Tom still slept. He felt dreadful. His head pounded with an almighty headache. He stood unsteadily and made it to the door, releasing the magic which sealed the compartment. The door slid open easily and he staggered into the corridor.

"Would you mind staying in your compartment sir?" One of the two guards on the door asked politely. The man was tall with light olive skin and a short, dark beard, flecked with silver. "The journey is nearly over."

"Need to go to the loo," answered Harry shortly. The blood still thick in his mouth. He closed his mouth sharply, wincing at the pain as he tried not to let the blood fall to the floor. There was no knowing what some wizards could do with something like blood. He must have looked a fright with his bloodstained teeth, but to the guard's credit he did not flinch away.

The two looked at each other, obviously weighing whether they should allow him out of their sight. "Very well sir, aurors Rosier and Aelfholme will accompany you." He knocked on an adjacent compartment and two stiff aurors, one male, one female looked out. He jerked his head at Harry and they nodded, falling into step behind Harry as they set off down the train. Behind them the other guard began whistling a recent hit from the wireless.

The chestnut panelling on the walls of the loo was smooth. Harry washed out the taste of blood. The wave of red water sloshed around the sink and then it was gone. The entire room looked more suited to an apartment in an expensive hotel than a train really. The exquisitely polished marble of the sink was somewhat vulgar but not badly done. The delicate carvings of goblins and centaurs being slaughtered were rather tasteless on the other hand.

He sighed and carefully placed his wand in his mouth, slowly enunciating around the wood. Of the three key elements of magic: focus, skill and will it was the first which Harry had always struggled with most, and the pain from his head was hardly helping. Come to that with his tongue feeling about twice its normal size and his antipathy for healing spells left the skill to be desire too. Still the spell took, once he pressed his will hard enough against it anyway.

He splashed water over his face before drying it with his sleeve. As he put his glasses back on he noticed the dark circles under his eyes. He might have the body of a twenty-five year old, but the sleep deprivation made him look closer to thirty. He dug around in his pockets and pulled out a packet of paracetamol. He could never decide if the extra resilience which magic and the horcrux gave him was a blessing or a curse, but being able to take half a dozen paracetamol without ill-effect was one of the greatest benefits.

The train rattled over a tiny gap in the sleepers as he left the loo. The door slammed to behind him. He was surprised when down the train a score of serious looking men and women popped out from their compartments, wands already drawn. _Guess dear ol' Tom wasn't being too stupid in not trying to fight his way out of this one then_.

They disappeared back into their compartments seconds later. Harry was escorted back to his own compartment in silence. He slipped inside gratefully and drew up the blind. Tom was already back to reading his book. Outside the sea was swiftly getting lighter, they were almost on the continent. He considered antagonising his companion before deciding that there was little point. Once you've been enemies long enough it's almost the same as being friends. Well except for that whole 'I'd kill you if I had the slightest opportunity thing.' You didn't tend to get that with friends.


	4. The Gates of Europe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry and co. cross the border into France.

**The Gates of Europe**

_Earlier in the Ministry_

The doors to the meeting room shut with a soft click behind Ursula Urquhart as she followed the two men out to where their escort waited. Back inside the chamber the others glanced at one another.

"Do you think it will work, Grandfather?"

Draco shrugged, "I honestly can't say, my dear, but I hope so. Operation Cassandra ought to give us a better idea of the probability." He turned his grey eyes to the Head of the Unspeakables. She shifted uncomfortably under the penetrating stare.

"Operation Cassandra," she said smoothly, "has predicted a 67% chance that they will cease to exist, within the parameters we have outlined."

"That is remarkably exact," Draco observed dryly. "I do wonder if it would have been more productive to simply kill them, rather than to try and use them like this."

The woman blushed lightly, "It is based upon what we have been able to quantify of their abilities. We have correlated that with interrogations of centaurs and other seers. However, it is only a projection, there are a great many factors that we have not been able to account for. This may be our best chance to break any 'destiny' they have."

"They do have a tendency to defy the odds," Draco mused. "Not to worry, none of us are perfect." The woman breathed a visible sigh of relief, sagging in her chair. "Still, keep up the good work. No one is indispensable after all."

The various occupants of the room glanced nervously at one another. While no-one was irreplaceable, as the frequent reshuffles, re-elections and purges of inefficiency revealed, only those who were not Malfoy by blood could realistically expect to be blamed for failures.

"Erm," Moncrieff licked his lips nervously. He splayed his fingers on the table as if he were laying out cards. "Whilst any failure would reflect badly upon us, surely it must be recognised that we few cannot be held solely responsible …"

Draco smiled benevolently. "Certainly. However, much as I would like to pretend otherwise someone must face the consequences. Should this fail any consequences will be _dire_."

Moncrieff sank back in his chair unwilling to stick his neck out further. The silence continued, stretching out uncomfortably. Moncrieff fidgeted, wishing the meeting would end. Draco pulled an ornate pocket watch from the breast of his black. He did not bother to glance down at the time. The ticking ran round the room, filling the silence. The Head of the Unspeakables trembled. She felt her mouth grow dry. The air became warm and heavy, and on the back of her neck hairs prickled. Around the table she saw the others licking their lips, rubbing their collars. A bead of sweat trickled down Moncrieff's long nose. Eventually Draco snapped the lid shut and replaced the watch in his pocket. The translucent skin of his hands flexed over blue veins.

He looked up, starting when he saw the others were still there. "Hurry along now. I'm sure we all have things to do." There was an edge to the grandfatherly tone. They left hurriedly.

Moncrieff looked up at Nott as they went to the lifts. "Did you feel that?"

"What?" the bigger man asked, terse as ever.

Before Moncrieff could answer a small man ran up to them. He held a notepad on which messages were forming at a phenomenal speed. "Sir, sir, would you mind taking this? Your secretary sent it up. There are a lot of memos coming through."

"Thank you …?"

"Weatherby sir," the man said bobbing his head before scurrying away.

Nott nodded distractedly and began flicking through the notepad. He was only half listening to his companion as they moved through the crowd like an icebreaker with tugboat in tow.

"The Minister _did_ something in there." Moncrieff shuddered. "Fair gave me the willies. I don't know, whatever it was it was _sinister_ ," he lingered almost lovingly over the last word.

"That is a frustratingly obtuse statement," Nott observed coolly. "Still, I understand. I'm glad I won't have to be back in there any time soon." He pushed his way through the crowd and pressed the button for the lift.

"Yeah. Reminds me of the feeling I got on a daemon summoning case down in Kent," Moncrieff began. Nott sighed, it was generally best to distract him before he could get started on one of his anecdotes.

"You know, I have this feeling that I forgot to do something," he murmured, trying to remember. He glanced down at the notepad in his hand, beginning to flick through it again.

Moncrieff nodded, "Oh, I know what you mean exactly. Come to mention it that daemon summoning incident was a case in point. You see I figured it out when I was crossing the county border, the internal wards … Nott? Are you quite well?"

Nott had gone as white as a sheet. The huge man leant weakly against the wall of the lift as it shot off into the depths of the Ministry. Moncrieff frowned, bringing up his hand to check his friend's temperature.

"You look like you've seen a dementor. What's happened?"

"I knew there was something I hadn't done. Do you think he'd allow me to take the honourable way out …?" He laughed hollowly. The lift slid by another, shooting into the void between floors before plummeting downwards.

"Come on, tell me. What is it and we can sort it out, pin the blame on the bitch from level nine or something," Moncrieff tried. The department heads were almost always prepared to put aside differences to unite against the Unspeakables.

Nott gave a sickly smile as the lift slid to a halt on the second level. A sheen of sweat was visible on his wide, pale brow. "I think it's rather too late for that, unless those two have a way to get past the French border control without papers."

"Oh. Fu –"

* * *

_Calais, the border with France:_

Harry stepped out of the train. They had stopped inside a large hall. The walls, floor and ceiling were made from great blocks of polished granite. Superbly fitted together, they gleamed in the light cast by smokeless torches. Harry shook himself, he did not like buildings which resembled caves. Indeed, he was not fond of caves in general. The gentle humming of the train vibrated round the cavernous hall.

"Impressive," remarked Tom from behind him. "Tell me, Thorbecombe: where are we exactly? I cannot say that I have ever entered Calais in this manner before."

"Nor would you have, my Lord," Thorbecombe said. He was a broad shouldered man with a neat, military haircut and a short, well-trimmed, black beard. He slipped out of the carriage followed by half a dozen aurors in plain clothes. "This station is very recent. I was a guard here while it was being built. It lies far beneath the muggle town.

"It was part of the treaty with the French to allow some communication between _our_ country and the Froggies. This is the only border crossing with them. The station is not just a station, it is _the_ gateway to Europe. The station forms a fortress around the gate to make sure neither side can take advantage. The granite is even interlaced with cold iron …"

"Fascinating," Tom cut him off, walking away from him. Evidently the auror captain's passion for local history was not to be indulged.

Harry strolled off down the hallway before Tom could take the lead. Though before long he came to a halt, looking around in what he imagined was a nonchalant fashion. It was a pity that he hadn't a clue as to where to go, he realised. To the sides staircases spiralled away into the building. It felt as if he had been trapped in an ancient, buried, cathedral. He shivered.

He peered up at a nearby sign, wiping away dust from his glasses. Behind him he could hear the rest of the auror contingent stepping from the train. They appeared to be carrying rather a lot of luggage. There were a couple of heavy thumps and some muffled shouting.

Around them people bustled by. Many of them were holiday makers, some business men, some workers at the station. He spotted the sign for border control just as the others caught up to him and he was swept along with them, keeping careful step with Tom.

Despite the nondescript robes the aurors were wearing Harry could not help but feel that the deliberate, uniform progress of the group was bound to attract attention sooner or later. Thorbecombe seemed to agree and with a slight gesture their entourage broke apart leaving him alone to personally escort Tom and Harry.

The hallway was long and oddly lit. Numerous flaming torches failed to match the clear, even light which illuminated the passageway. Without the aurors surrounding him he felt more relaxed. Though there had been none of the glances of fear or recognition which he had half expected and which Tom had received. It galled him slightly, not that he could remember even seeing his name in any of the accounts he had glanced over. He was not even a bogeyman to scare the neo-Death Eaters. He was less than a memory.

They rounded a corner and came to a grinding halt. A semi-infinite line of people snaked away into the distance. The corridor seemed far longer than made sense. The passageway was difficult to look at, staring at any one spot made his eyes water. Over the corridor a shifting heat haze moved, distorting the queue, rippling around it.

He amused himself observing those waiting in the line. The man directly in front was entertaining on his own. If he had been a muggle he would have been wearing a Hawaiian shirt and green golfer shoes. Either way the man in question was the stereotypical tourist. His robe was quite literally a shifting rainbow of colour. It shone and danced with each step. It was as if light had been pulled together, folded in upon itself and then allowed to burst outwards, without rhyme or reason.

Beside Harry, Tom muttered under his breath. "Yan, tan, tethera ..."

"What are you up to?" Harry asked, keeping his voice as low as. Constant vigilance, you could never be too careful. He cast a quick anti-eavesdropping charm.

"Counting rhyme. That robe is an abomination," answered Tom tightly.

"Aren't you a master of mind-magic and all? Can't you simply control yourself," Harry asked innocently, amused by the other man's frustration.

Tom just looked at him blankly. "Why do you think I wear black? I detest garish colours."

Harry shrugged, "I didn't give it much thought. I always presumed you knew you were evil and wanted to broadcast it. I mean, Death Eaters?"

"That was not entirely my fault," Tom protested. "I planned to call them the Knights of Walpurgis. Sadly I was outvoted."

" _You_ let people have a vote?" Harry asked, shocked. The line moved forward like a ponderous beast.

"I was young and idealistic. I still thought that if encouraged people might be capable of intelligent thought. Anyway, you are hardly competent to give lectures on occlumancy, or legilimancy come to that. Or have you been practising in your spare time? Ripping through the minds of a few innocents here and there?"

Harry suppressed the urge to look away. "I _have_ had a hundred years, you know." He decided to pass over the fact that his tactics were restricted to bulldozing the opposition and raising most primitive of defences. If possible he would have tried to overpower an attackers physically. There were of course a few other minor tricks. Fortunately Tom let it pass, probably from a desire to stop talking to Harry. A few seconds later the one time dark lord was back to staring daggers at the man in front of him in the queue.

* * *

The one time ruler of Britain sighed. Either he had to talk to the boy, or the mind numbing boredom of the wait would drive him stark raving mad. He was thinking of talking to Harry Potter to alleviate the boredom? He considered the idea for a second, it was possible that he was already mad and it just hadn't sunk in yet.

"So … how have you been since," he paused, "…when did we last see one another?" For some reason it was ludicrously difficult to make small talk with the boy.

"Erm, about sixty years ago now," Harry replied. "That incident in Constantinople."

The memory drew a smile from Voldemort. "Few things are as beautiful as fire are they? Where did you go? I spent four years trying to find you." He paused remembering the assassins the French government had a tendency to send after him. They had been irritating, it would have been convenient to be able to successfully disappear, "For one reason and another." The queue moved forward by several feet.

"Really? I'm surprised. All I did was to retire to a small village and changed my name. Very simple all told. Though the Ministry must have been keeping tabs on me," Harry sighed in resignation.

"You changed your name? _Is that all_? What did you even change it to?"

Harry had the good grace to blush. "It wasn't much of a name. A joke really …"

Voldemort smiled wolfishly. "Indulge me."

"Well, I'd just read the Odyssey," Harry paused, scratching behind his ear. "So I went for Nemo … Tom Nemo." He decided not to mention that he'd chosen it in honour of Voldemort's hated father. He did have to work with the man.

"'No man', how droll. Your sense of humour is just what I would expect. I _am_ flattered though, I didn't think I had made that much of an impact upon you. However, in future I'd appreciate it if you got my name right." Border control was in sight, it could not be long till they finally reached it.

"I suppose I could. I'm sure the French aurors would love to know you're here. Shall I start calling you it now or later?" _What the hell, I might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb_ , Harry decided, "Don't worry. I just thought someone should remember your dad."

Voldemort's face went white with fury and he turned away.

* * *

"Would the next party come forward," called the border guard. She was a tall, dark skinned, witch wearing a scarlet tabard with three golden lions emblazoned upon it. A small, nervous looking, man accompanied by a child stepped up past the line to begin to make his way through the agonizingly slow processing procedure. Harry sighed, this was taking forever. Even with the cooling and air-freshening charms the atmosphere in the corridor was thick and heavy. The air was hard to breathe, filled with the scent of sweat and too many humans pushing one another along like cattle.

Harry chewed his lip, he had two main tactics for dealing with life: keeping busy and just removing himself from the equation. Unfortunately here he was _doing_ things, or at least on the way to do things. Things which brought up unwanted thoughts. It was, he had to admit, likely that he would have to meet Hermione and Ron's children, or grandchildren, maybe even great-grandchildren. He shivered at the thought. Would he see something of his old friends there? Would there be a chance to undo the damage he'd done? Would they know his name?

"Next please," the guard's voice sounded far away. He stumbled into movement when Thorbecombe nudged him forward.

Thorbecombe had evidently noticed his preoccupation for he simply flashed his badge discreetly at the guard. She paled and let them through into the next stage of the crossing. The black curtain of cloth which hid the second stage slid over Harry's face and shoulders like water. The following room was much lower than the rest of the corridor, barely more than eight feet high. Through the centre of the room a shimmering purple wall of magic ran, perceptibly leeching the heat from the air. There were a row of changing rooms on the right and a granite counter on the left. On the counter a stack of small boxes teetered beside a set of brass scales. Behind the counter stood a man with tightly curled blonde hair and frequently blinking eyes.

"Your wands," he said officiously.

Harry dropped his wand into the waiting scales. They clicked, whirred and wobbled. A thin ribbon of paper curled out from the mouth of the miniature bronze dragon which curled around the scales. The man picked up the piece of paper. His eyes widened and he handed back Harry's wand, placing the paper in a shallow dish beside him. Tom grudgingly followed suit. It was better to avoid interest. There had been too many instances of travellers arrested, and often held for many years, by zealous border officials on both sides.

The look on the man's face was somewhere between awe and incredulity. The scales informed him that he had handled not one, but _two_ phoenix wands within the space of three minutes. There was something familiar about the second one's description; vague memories of history textbooks came to mind.

"Mr …" Thorbecombe began.

"Camble," he supplied. His voice was a mere cobweb of sound.

Thorbecombe handed over his badge. "I know this must be disconcerting for you, but I must ask for your discretion in the name of your country." Camble nodded. His frown vanished, replaced by a dull look of fear. "If you could hold onto these reports for a few minutes it would be _greatly_ appreciated ..."

"I can't, I _really_ can't. It's against regulations. The aurors will close the gates. I'll lose my job ..."

"Calmly my dear chap," Thorbecombe interrupted gently. "I'm asking for no more than a few minutes. They won't notice that. It'll just be enough time to let us blend in. As to you losing your job, well remember the government employs you … and I _am_ the government."

Biting his tongue, eyes wide with a trace of fear the man nodded again. Thorbecombe smiled with satisfaction and placed his own wand on the scales. They whirred, a strip of paper spun out: _fir, unicorn hair, nine inches._

"Might I have a movement box to the Ministry for this?" Thorbecombe added, sliding over his badge.

"Certainly, to the DMLE?"

Thorbecombe nodded and Camble pulled out a delicate box from under the counter. It was silver and the surface swam like water. Pulling back the lid Camble placed the badge inside. He waited a few seconds before opening it to reveal that it was once again empty. He seemed reassured now that he was back on familiar ground.

"If you are carrying any other magical items, would you please place them in these boxes along with any other luggage and your wands? They will seal as soon as you go through the barrier and reopen once you have passed into France. Thank you for your patience," he finished in the tone of a man who said the same thing thousands of times a day. Then he laid out three of the pill-box sized containers. Thorbecombe did nothing other than push his wand into his box. Harry pulled his overcoat off his arm and reluctantly let it be sucked inside, along with its many contents, followed by his wand. The metal glowed blue for a second before fading back to black.

Tom shifted uncomfortably, "Ah, this may prove a problem. My robe is a magical object. I have no other clothes with me …"

The man smiled reassuringly, "Not to worry. Happens to the best of us …" He trailed off at the look Tom was sending him. "Erm, perhaps if you would step inside the cubical I could pass you clothes until we find something in your size? We have a collection for occasions such as this. Needless to say we can't transfigure anything. That would then be magical and set off the alarms."

Tom nodded grimly and stalked with bad grace towards the changing rooms.

Ten minutes, and a great many rejected pieces of clothing, later Tom re-emerged. He wore a pair of formal trousers which were, despite his not inconsiderable height, somewhat too long. His upper half was somewhat better clad, from a certain point of view. He wore an aged tunic like T-shirt thirty years out of fashion, complete with a cheaply printed image of a rockband. The band appeared to be battling something which could either have been a dragon or a squid. The only pieces of his own clothing Tom still wore were the plain black socks and smooth, black, leather shoes. Nevertheless, his face was twisted with black look of hatred.

It transpired that muggle clothing was preferable given the lack of magic used in its production. Thorbecombe had been forced to follow Tom's example. He grudgingly wore a pair of wide legged shorts, walking boots and a thick fisherman's jumper which to Tom's dismay Thorbecombe had snagged first.

The border clerk sighed in relief as he finally pressed the button to let the aurors in control of the gate know they could let the party through. They were scanned and passed through the next chamber relatively quickly. The final, heavy, iron gate was unlocked with a series of heavy thumps.

Harry shivered as he felt the thick warding of the waiting room flow around them. He closed his eyes. The world swam before him and his stomach flipped and dropped away with a sickening twist. The bond between him and his wand had vanished. It was as if he had suddenly looked down and seen that his hand was missing. He stumbled and had to pause for a moment to steady his breathing. Tom following him in had still a worse reaction, sinking to the floor. Of the three of them Thorbecombe seemed least affected, although his skin had taken on a greenish tinge.

Looking around he realised that many of the others had the same pained expression of discomfort and loss. Only the children seemed unconcerned. While not large the room was large enough for the fifty or so people who waited their turn to pass through the French border and out of this no-man's land. The walls were painted a crisp white and around the edges half dozen of the French gendarmes prowled. They wore robes of a rich azure, with the fleur-de-lis upon the chest, each carried identical ivory wands. At their belts they also carried more traditional examples of the wand crafter's art which many of them frequently brushed their fingers against.

"Ugh," Tom muttered as he picked himself up. "That's something I haven't felt before."

They each took a numbered ticket and sat. At the French gate a grim faced official tapped an ivory wand against the iron: a ripple ran over the metal and it dissolved softly into air for just long enough for a petite woman wearing a crimson shawl to step through. Beyond, Harry caught a glimpse of a room where a gendarme stood guard at a desk. As the woman entered the man moved his arm as if to press or pull something and the purple gleam faded from view before the iron door shivered into existence once more.

"I'll be back soon," Harry promised to Thorbecombe as he got up and made his way to the loos. He splashed the cold water over his face, superficially washing away the grime of waiting. Shaking his head like a wet dog he wiped the excess water off and walked back into the main waiting hall. As he walked back he passed a group of fellow travellers. The father was shuffling through a set of papers, the mother dangling a baby on her knee and the daughter, a girl of about seven or eight was reading out loud to her baby brother. There was something about them that bothered him though. Something he couldn't put his finger on.

"Hullo," he said sitting down again. Across the aisle Tom was pacing up and down, drawing suspicious glares from the guards. "What number are we on now then?"

"They've reached 158. It shouldn't be too long now. You ought to get your papers ready."

"Papers?" Harry's stomach lurched again as the bottom dropped away from it for the second time in half an hour.

"You know, the papers. I expect the Ministry ran them through. Just follow my lead, lad," Thorbecombe spoke in an undertone, evidently aware of the possibility of eavesdroppers. "Now, now, what's this?" His attention was pulled away from Harry as a harried looking official passed a note through a grille in the door to one of the gendarmes. The gendarme had drawn one of his companions over and was gesticulating wildly as he spoke.

"No, listen. I don't have papers. _We_ don't have papers," Harry whispered in furious panic. He grabbed Thorbecombe's arm to bring him back to the conversation.

"You must have been given some at the Ministry. You were to learn them on the train …" Thorbecombe protested.

Harry shook his head dully.

"Shit."

"Yeah ..." Harry turned towards Tom as he passed by. "Tom, need a word."

Tom raised an eyebrow but carefully seated himself beside them.

"We have a problem."

"Yes?"

"Apparently we don't have any papers."

"Ah," Tom appeared to consider the problem for a second before turning to Thorbecombe. "If I discover that you were more than an unwitting pawn in this then I make you this promise: I _shall_ hunt you down, should you get out of this alive; I _will_ rip the flesh from your bones and I _shall_ destroy any hope you ever harboured in a god. There shall be no mercy, either in the blessing that death shall become to you or in the eternity beyond should you achieve it. Now do we have a plan?"

Harry and Thorbecombe instinctively looked at one another before shaking their heads. "Nada," Harry supplied. In the background a guard called the next person forward. Around them a few of the gendarmes began to filter through the hall, stopping occasionally to ask people something in quiet, indistinct, tones.

"We could just go back and wait for papers," Thorbecombe suggested tentatively.

"Why, of course. I'm sure Border Control would just _love_ to let two people without any papers and … well whoever your papers say you are back into the country," Tom scoffed. "Perhaps the French don't keep records. Maybe they won't notice our second attempt to enter the country within a few days. Come to that how do you intend to get back through _that_?" He gestured at blank wall to the British side of the complex.

"We could imperius the guard at the French gate to let us through …" Harry mused half-heartedly.

"Well done, another brilliant scheme. Do you have a wand hidden about your person? I don't. Not that I'm even sure they'd work in here," Tom pointed out with chilly calm.

"Sorry, sorry. Just trying to think of something. I don't see _you_ coming up with anything," Harry hissed.

"We could …"

"Excusez-moi, Monsier?"

Harry looked up at the thin gendarme. "Yes? Can I help you?"

"Might I see your wand license?" The man asked. His accent hung heavily on every word. A look of disgust crossed his face at Harry's lack of an attempt to speak French.

Harry blinked slowly, "Actually, I don't have one." He pressed on with the lie, "I'm a squi ... unawakened you see." _Control your heart beat, look him in the eye and blink naturally_. The gendarme studied his face for a few seconds. Meanwhile Tom and Thorbecombe put up a front of talking heatedly to one another behind Harry.

"Very well monsieur. Might I ask for your ticket number?"

"Of course, I'm 174. Anything else?"

"Non. Not for ze moment. By ze way, I should get ready, if I were you. We are about to speed up the process. Try and get rid of some of ze back- how do you say it? Leg? Non, log, backlog, zat is it."

"Ah, merci," Harry's attempt at French possibly made the man wince more than he had at the sound of English. Harry sighed in relief as the gendarme moved on selecting his next victim. _Why speed up the process though? Unless they're trying to panic us. Why panic us? They must have found a record of the wands, but since they're just trying to scare in general they don't know who we are exactly._

"Well, that's bought us a little more time at least," he interjected into the conversation.

Thorbecombe surveyed him sourly, "Until they realise that there aren't unawakened here, or that you aren't one of them. Why the hell don't you have a license?"

Harry shrugged, "Didn't know you needed one nowadays."

Thorbecombe shuddered, rubbing his temples. If he survived this mission he prayed to all the gods that ever were that he'd get early retirement. He definitely deserved it.

"Any more ideas in the meantime?"

"Beyond just trying to take on six gendarmes without a weapon? No, not really," came Tom's languid reply.

"We could just try and talk our way through," Harry suggested.

The other two just looked at him with blank horror at the stupidity of the idea. Not a Gryffindor bone in their bodies Harry decided.

* * *

Voldemort rolled his eyes. They were getting nowhere. How on earth was it that with supposedly intelligent humans behaving like this anyone had ever managed to thwart him? Still, needs must when the Devil drives.

"Fine. If you want a job done, do it yourself," he muttered before addressing the others, "When the time comes, use the distraction. Take care of my body."

Pain. Pain flooded every nerve of his insubstantial form as Voldemort flung himself into the ether. He called upon the ancient, dangerous and most importantly wandless magical art he had perfected long ago. Say what you liked, thirteen years as a wraith really improved your skills when it came to possession. His vacated body lurched into Harry, collapsing. He watched dispassionately for a moment before beginning to glide his way towards the iron doorway. Emotions were muted, dull, empty things, only the black well of hatred remained in the wraith form. He could not spend too long like this. Already the pain was beginning to numb his thoughts and he could feel the links to his body starting to fray.

The world was a mottled canvas of greys, blacks and whites streaming around him. Through the iron he could see the pulsing line of scarlet magic where the wards blocked the passage from England to Europe. The iron barrier dissolved as a small girl and her family hurried through the gate and he floated alongside, a wisp of invisible malice. The barrier pulsed threateningly as the door resolved itself into solid reality once more.

Harry grasped Tom's slumping form, forcing him up into a sitting position. "Help me with him," he grunted to Thorbecombe.

"What's he up to do you reckon?" Thorbecombe asked.

"I don't have a clue, but it isn't good for him. He's losing heat fast. Can you feel it?"

Thorbecombe nodded, "He's hardly breathing."

"Let's sit him up; perhaps that'll help. Get ready to pick him up. Something is going to happen. My bet is we need to get through the gate when it does."

* * *

Voldemort sank into the guard's body as the man was reaching to close the gate. The body stiffened as the two spirits warred for control. The fight did not last long. It might have been the man's home turf but against the greatest legilimens in the last five hundred years even a moderately trained mind stood less than no chance.

Voldemort smiled triumphantly, the man's lips twisted upwards in a mockery of a grin. Still, no time for that: now that he was in another's carcass the links to his own body would be failing still faster. He concentrated, the next operation would be a little bit more difficult.

He had always prided himself on his ability when it came to the manipulation, control and possession of victims. He was inclined to believe that he was the only wizard who could have accomplished a possession let alone so thoroughly or with such devastating speed. Although a somewhat mistaken belief it was true that what he did next no other could have managed. Despite his hatred for muggles Voldemort had long known that their knowledge in some matters exceeded that of wizards. The maxim of "know thine enemy" had served him well. Over the last century he had paid careful attention to muggle articles on the workings of the human brain. After a quick ravaging of the guard's memory as far as the security of the gate went he applied what was, in magical terms, the equivalent of an icepick to the man's brain. The blow elicited a small, involuntary whimper from the man. It was an advantage of possession that the practitioner did not suffer the physical side effects of damage to the body.

He jabbed the lever which raised and lowered the gate with 'his' wand, sending a pulse of magic into it. It came out weak, watered down by the foreign body and the resistance which the guard was still putting up. He tried again.

"Jean, que faites-vous?" A man's voice asked, from his left. Voldemort glanced up noticing the approaching figure of a gendarme.

"Nothing," he blurted out, realising too late that he had spoken in English.

The man's eyes narrowed, "Déposez votre baguette. Drop your wand."

Hesitation and obedience to the law, the eternal weaknesses of policemen. Voldemort smiled and sent one last blast of power into the mechanism, before leaping backwards. The gate was jammed open; the operating system fried.

The gendarme attacked. His first spell whizzed past Voldemort's outstretched arm.

Voldemort's possessed body lurched wildly as he sidestepped. He barely avoiding a burst of orange light. He returned fire, a rattle of spells pouring from his wand. Every single one of them was lethal. Every single one of them missed. His right hand twisted, shooting the spells into the walls, floor and ceiling. The guard was peppered with but he was unharmed.

Voldemort felt sweat prickling his borrowed brow. He must have made a slight mistake, though weak, the body's true owner was still resisting him. Slouching awkwardly under a cutting curse he began to edge backwards. With things as they were he stood little chance against a trained professional. Channelled through this body, his control of magic was a shadow of its usual self. With his mind already split between numerous tasks: controlling the body; maintaining the connection to his own body; suppressing his victim's mind and fighting the gendarme, there was little chance that the situation would improve.

A leg spasmed, knocking him off balance. It left him open to the bone-piercer which ripped through the flesh and muscle of his calf. He control faltered, weakened by the sudden pain. Casting a wide shield he used the force from the spell to propel himself backwards towards the door. The ivory wand in his hand swung round, catching the cold iron of the gate.

* * *

Tom's body jerked under Harry's grip in sympathy with some unseen event.

"Come on Riddle, hurry up!" Harry breathed. His head snapped up as the iron door to the room dissolved and the sound of battle flooded the chamber. The guards began to race towards the opening, only for one of their own to stagger through. The brilliant blue of his robe was stained purple with blood. He stumbled and pointed through the doorway. They reacted with brutal, crushing, destructive aggression. As the man collapsed the gendarmes let loose a stream of burning, cutting, slicing and blasting curses through the doorway. The volley of spells lasted only a few seconds but smoke and dust drifted through the doorway.

A voice floated through the doorway. It was magically amplified so that it boomed around the chamber of terror-stricken travellers. The travellers covered their ears, crouching and huddling upon the ground.

"Arrêtez! Arrêtez...! Je ne suis pas votre ennemi. Cet homme n'est pas Jean, il a attaqué les défenses."

"Identifiez-vous, ou préparez-vous à mourir," the leader of the gendarmes replied firmly, narrowing his eyes to try and peer through the haze of dust.

The man who had staggered through the gateway, now somewhat healed by another of the blue robed warriors, began to crawl along the floor towards the back of the room. He passed Harry and Thorbecombe, and as he passed he winked broadly. A smile twisted his face.

"Je suis …" the man from the room beyond began only to be cut off.

"Don't worry. He is telling the truth," the voice was unmistakable. Even coming from the wrong body. The cultured, aristocratic tones of Tom Marvolo Riddle cut through the room. As Harry gestured to Thorbecombe to get ready to move he wondered absently how it was that a boy brought up in a poor London orphanage had come to sound like that.

"Mon Dieu, c'est le Diable," whispered one gendarme in horror.

"Not quite," Tom began, leaning heavily on one of the thick wooden benches, "but not far off." With a flourish he swept the ivory wand in a wide arc letting out a wave of pulsing fire at the men who moments before had leapt to his defence, forcing them to the floor.

Harry began to shuffle along the flagstones. He pulled the limp body by its arms as Thorbecombe pushed. Around them spells cracked and roared as they smashed into the paintwork. Tom knocked aside attacks with wide duelling shields, letting them ricochet away back towards his attackers. His defence was surprisingly sloppy, Harry realised, based more on arcane knowledge than finesse or power. Long forgotten shields absorbed finely tuned blasts which had never encountered their weight before. Yet it was at a price. Tom was flagging; his ripostes had become little more than flickers of action amid the maelstrom in which he stood, beleaguered.

Harry saw his chance: the gendarmes led by the guard from the other side of the gate were caught up in the advance upon their foe and had left the gate unmanned. The other travellers had backed into the corners of the room. They were trapped like sheep amid wolves. Heaving Tom's body onto his shoulder Harry half crouched, half ran through the gate. The limp legs smacked painfully into his hips. Thorbecombe followed doggedly pursuing him.

* * *

Lord Voldemort breathed a silent sigh of relief as the boy and the Ministry stooge slunk through the door. He was nearing the last of his strength. He had enough left for one last burst. He drove another drill of power randomly into his host's mind. By now he'd lost count of how many he had been forced to use on the man. Hopefully this one would at least send him into a psychotic rage. That would buy them time, and they _needed_ time. If he was to repossess his body before it failed entirely. Given how little attention he had spared it during the fight he did not have long left. Snapping up yet another shield he slumped out of the way of the green light of a killing curse. They were getting serious, time to leave.

"Know this," he shouted over the din. "You have but faced the outriders of the storm that is my wrath. Remember Lord Voldemort. _IGNIS IRA_!" With that he left the body of the guard and fled. He dodged through the raging, leaping flames conjured by the spell. It was a lesser cousin to the terrible fiendfyre, one which a horcrux or a soul might survive.

* * *

Down the corridor Harry felt the wash of heat blister the back of his neck. He dropped Tom's body like a sack of potatoes and took a half step back down the passage. He hesitated torn between the desire to help and the knowledge that there could only be a little time left for them to escape.

Kneeling down beside Tom he felt for a pulse. It was becoming fainter and fainter, fading away. For a second Tom's back arched, his eyes opened wide and he gasped in air. Then he collapsed backwards, the pulse dying entirely.

Thorbecombe stared at the corpse in shock, rocking back on his haunches, "Oh. Now what?"

"Oh no you don't you bastard," Harry snarled putting his hands to Tom's chest and beginning to pump. "One, two, three. Come on man, help me!"

Thorbecombe looked at him hopelessly, without magic he was obviously helpless and they had no time for magic. "How?"

"Breathe into his mouth!"

Harry kept pumping as Thorbecombe, following his instructions lowered his mouth to Tom's, blowing heavily. Harry kept pumping with one hand as he flicked the fingers of his right. The little magic he could control wandlessly flowed into a crackling bolt of electricity. He plunged his hand down; Tom's body shook, jolting as the electricity passed through him. His heart did not restart. Down the corridor there came the sound of running feet, for the moment far off. The crackle of flames from the chamber was dying down. The shouts of the gendarmes were growing calmer. Harry flicked another bolt into Tom's chest. For a moment he shuddered, and then Harry felt the weak flutter of a heart beginning to beat. Thorbecombe paused, feeling it.

"No! Don't … stop …" commanded Harry, "Must … keep … going." They laboured furiously over the body. Tom's heart gained strength as his soul once more safely housed inside the body sped up the process. Mere instants after Tom had cranked his eyes open for the second time (the first had met with the somewhat horrifying experience of Thorbecombe still giving him inexpert mouth to mouth resuscitation) he found Harry's fists gripping the collar of his T-shirt.

"There were children in there! What were you thinking using fiendfyre?" Harry growled, eyes burning inches from Tom's own.

Tom blinked slowly, "I didn't use fiendfyre. I suspected the gendarmes would contain it, and by the sound of it they have."

Harry sagged in relief at the news. Almost anything else could be beaten without the loss of life which invariably resulted from the black fire.

"I saved our lives back there ..." Tom pointed out, straightening his robe.

"I only have the faintest idea of the history between you two, and frankly I don't much care. We need to hide, they're coming." Thorbecombe's interruption brought the two of them back to the present.

Harry hesitated for a second, then ripping open the container Camble had handed him for his possessions he pulled out his coat. Reaching into the pocket he drew out a long stretch of silvery material and flung it over them.

"Pull in your legs!"

They hunched themselves under the cloak with hardly a moment to spare. They lay there, curled up like mice, as the gendarmes thundered down the passage and past the desk which still smouldered from the barrage of spells which had hit it.

* * *

_14 Hours Later in the Office of the French President for Magic. The conversation has been translated._

"And there is no way to track this back to the British?" The president, Albert Chenault, asked for the third time.

"None that we can make stick. They are denying all involvement. Many know it was them of course, but we have no evidence. They refuse to even admit their one-time leader was at the scene …"

"We know someone carrying his wand entered the area! The man even declared the attack to be in his name!" Albert thumped his fist on the oaken desk.

" _We_ know, sir, but the information was destroyed in the battle. What's worse is that as far as all the witnesses' reports go they agree it was one of our own men who attacked the others. Several ambassadors have already effectively told me that they believe that this was an inside job by us ..." the aide flinched as a thunderous look crossed the President's face.

"The man's in a spell damage ward!"

"I know, but ..."

"No, this time they've gone too far. Activate operation Alah al-din."

"Sir, we don't know what …"

"Do it."

The aide sighed and walked out of the doors, there was little point in arguing sometimes. The doors swung shut behind him, the white and gold wood sliding silently to a stop. Albert sat down, running his fingers through his rapidly greying hair; when he had first been elected it was a solid black. He picked up the report and looked at it again. He prayed he was doing the right thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> 1\. Excuse me, sir?
> 
> 2\. John, what are you doing?
> 
> 3\. Drop your wand.
> 
> 4\. Stop! Stop! I am not your enemy. That man is not Jean, he attacked the defences.
> 
> 5\. Identify yourself. Or prepare to die.
> 
> 6\. I am …
> 
> 7\. My God, it is the Devil.


	5. The King in Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey continues. Stories are told and Harry plays a game of chess.

**The King in Black**

Three figures slunk out of a small, blank walled, grimy alley. The leader, a tall, dark-haired man, looked carefully from side to side. He turned right towards the outskirts of the town. They were at the very edge of Calais. The forsaken streets were the dingiest in the town. Once the area had been thriving, but the plagues and famines of the late twenty-first century had left deserted buildings which hung like a ring of scum around the town.

"What now?" The shortest asked. In his thick jersey he seemed out of place in the evening sunlight which burst down between the crumbling houses.

"We need to a way out of here first. He's too weak to apparate. We'll need another way …"

"Portkey?" the shorter, bearded man suggested.

"Could they track it?"

"Probably."

"No then. We'll go the muggle way. I'll drive." He looked around. "Come on. We'll nick a car. Let's get out of Calais first."

He set off and the other two followed. The last of the three stumbled along behind the others, using the wall as a prop.

* * *

Harry looked around, the street was almost empty. They had stopped in a village barely beyond Calais. He felt horrendously conspicuous, lounging against the dusty, whitewashed, wall in his worn coat. He wiggled his wand so that the tip poked out of his sleeve and gestured towards a man who had just locked his car.

" _Confundo_. _Accio_ keys," he whispered softly. He easily caught the bunch of metal as it soared through the air. The man blinked dazedly, looked blearily at his hand and slowly wandered away. A woman coming the other way sniffed and gave him a wide berth.

Harry waited a few moments and sauntered over to the car and unlocked it. The door opened and he slid into the driver's seat. It was an old car, slimmed down to the bare essentials in the drive for a more eco-friendly lifestyle. The ride did not promise to be comfortable.

Thorbecombe pushed Tom into the back seats, strapping him. Harry adjusted the mirrors, turned off the auto-pilot and ran through how to drive in his mind. He was pretty sure he remembered most of it. The electric car purred almost silently to life and releasing the handbrake he set off at a slow glide down the street. _Easy as riding a bike_ , he thought. A computer whirred into life and began speaking in French, warning him about something or other. He thumped it hard and the tiny screen flickered and died. Digging about in the glove compartment with one hand while he steered with the other he pulled out an aged road map and flung it into the back.

"You know I'm impressed: not many wizards have a clue about cars," he observed to Thorbecombe. "I haven't met many who even knew what a seatbelt was for."

" Ministry trai … FOR MERLIN'S SAKE WATCH OUT!"

He swerved wildly to avoid a madly honking car coming the other way. _You drive on the other side of the road when on the continent. Got to remember that._

From the back a shaky voice spoke, "That isn't going to happen much is it?"

"No, no, absolutely not, Thorbecombe."

"Call me Richard," the other man said faintly.

"Righto. Can you read the map for me? I think we've got to head south-east."

The drive went smoothly. In the back Tom slept and Richard gave occasional directions. The sky grew darker and darker; red faded to blue and then black. The stars lay hidden, cloaked by a veil of cloud. As they drove Harry flicked on the lights, yellow beams slicing into the night. Once in a while they shot past another car but they were few and far between.

At last Harry pulled into a service station and turned off the engine. A few twists and turns to lose any theoretical pursuers had left them just to the north of Rheims.

"We should be safe enough here. We'll wait till morning and power up the car before carrying on. I say we risk a few hours sleep."

Richard looked as if he might protest but an involuntary yawn cut him off. He nodded reluctantly and climbed over into the boot where he lay down to rest.

Harry rolled the chair back and stretched out. He half wondered about checking the radio to see if the French Ministry had fed any warnings of terrorists to the muggles, but he fell asleep before he could do so.

* * *

_England, July 2002._

A mist lapped at his feet as he stepped onto the path near Cricklehollow Cottage. He was late and alone. He had argued with Ginny over tactics and his girlfriend had declared that they needed time to cool off, away from one another. In the calm of Cricklehollow he sighed, perhaps he _was_ pushing too hard for victory.

Then he saw the cottage – something was wrong. No Dark Mark hung above the house but that meant little these days. The door swung backwards and forwards. The house was dark. He drew his wand and padded forward silently.

He nudged the door open with the toe of his boot and edged inside. Moonlight blossomed through the open doorway revealing a slick, wet pool against the wall of the hallway. Harry licked his lips, praying that the worst had _not_ happened. He took a long, deep, breath and moved on into the house, keeping low.

He paused, from above there had come a soft, slow, thump. He gripped his wand tightly.

" _Nox Videre_ ," he breathed, tapping his wand softly against his glasses. The night vision charm was less obtrusive than _lumos_ , less likely to alert an enemy. He cursed his stupidity for storming out of the meeting without the invisibility cloak as he slipped up the stairs.

He could feel his shirt sticking to his skin. The air was cold and clammy lacking the heat of a July night. His blood froze in his veins, if it was so warm why had there been a mist? Abandoning all traces of stealth he pounded up the narrow flight of steps to the first floor. He began to wrench doors open. Bathroom: nothing. Spare room: nothing. Airing cupboard: nothing. With fierce desperation he tore open the door to the master bedroom.

Hannah Longbottom sat crouched on the floor, slowly rocking back and forward. She was dressed in a floral dress pooling around her. Her head thumped against the door of the wardrobe. Her hands were locked in front of her face. Her wand, shattered on the carpet, was coated with rot and mildew.

Not far away the eviscerated corpse of a man was impaled upon the wall next to the window to the garden. A climbing rose had smashed through the glass and speared him. The blood was his, it had flowed down over the floorboards and down to the floor below. It was still liquid and warm. Harry could only have been minutes too late.

"Hannah?" he croaked out, pleading. No answer. "Hannah, _please_ ..." his voice broke. Still nothing. "Do you know where Neville is?" Nothing.

He knelt down beside her and slowly put his hands out, stopping her continual rocking. She did not make even the smallest sound.

Gently he turned her head towards him. Her long, heavy, honey gold hair fell over her face veiling it from sight. He brushed it aside gently. Her lips were open, tinged with blue, frostbitten. The eyes were worst. Once they had been warm, chocolate brown orbs; now they were cold and lifeless. There was no recognition there. Hannah's soul had been ripped from existence. All her love for Neville, all her joy in life was gone.

"Dementors," Harry spat.

Harry wept. Tears rolled his cheeks as he cradled the hollow shell that had once been his friend. Eventually he stood. He levelled his wand and spoke words of mercy. Her body slumped to the floor, passing without pain.

His heart was hard as flint as he walked down the stairs. He did not bother to hurry. His wand glowed with a dull, red light as he searched the house. Methodically he checked each and every room. At last he came to the drawing room and looked out across the lawn from the French windows. Neville's last stand had been in the garden. The normally pristine lawn was pockmarked with smouldering embers and holes. The plants had risen, rupturing the earth only to be hacked down with blasting curses.

The beautiful garden now resembled a graveyard of flesh, blood and bone. Carnivorous vines seethed over in the ground crawling from the broken greenhouses. Harry followed the destruction, already aware what he would find. Neville's tattered cadaver hung swinging and turning in the gentle breeze. A macabre and ghastly fruit. On his shoulder perched a crow.

Harry left soundlessly. The red glow burst from his wand. Raging animals of fire leaping over the house and garden, devouring all in its path. He waited until the last beam collapsed into ashes before forcing the spell to cease. Then he walked a short way down the path before disapparating. There would be peace.

_Harry awoke, the tears still running down his cheeks. All was quiet. He sighed and for a moment he thought he could smell lemon grass and thyme around him before he sank back to sleep._

* * *

When he next awoke it was morning. Slate grey clouds scudded across the sky. Billows of thin drizzle lashed the windscreen. He sat up stiffly and winced as the crick in his neck clicked. He quietly slipped out of the car and walked over to the service station. With a combination of a phrase book which he subsequently bought he obtained a small tube of tooth paste and a brush. Handing over the money, which the car's owner had left carelessly in the glove compartment, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and thanked the shop assistant.

The taste of the toothpaste, though disagreeable, was better than that of a night's sleep. Rolling his shoulders he straightened up, swirling the last of the foamy toothpaste down the sink. He glanced into the mirror and grimaced. He needed a shower; his hair had the slight shimmer of grease. He sighed, it would have to wait until they next stopped.

When he arrived back at the car Richard was pacing up and down. His face was mottled puce and sickly cream, half afraid, half furious. In the back seat Tom slept.

"I don't know. I haven't a clue where he got off to!" Richard was virtually shouting. To whom he was talking was impossible to tell: there was no one in sight. "No, Philips hasn't reported in, nor Moore. I think we'll have to presume they're gone. We will proceed as planned. The rendezvous will be at Stuttgart. Now, I'm off to find that bloody whelp ..." he turned around and, seeing Harry, jumped. A look of embarrassment and guilt flickered over his face. His thumb swiped over the base of his wand with a click.

"Good morning. I think you were about to go looking for me?" Harry greeted him mildly.

"Hm, ah, yes … sorry about that. Didn't mean anything by it," Richard said gruffly, avoiding Harry's gaze.

"Don't worry. I'm sure it was nerve wracking. Who were you talking to?"

"Just one of the boys on the team."

"Are they okay?"

"Mmm, by and large they managed to make themselves scare and avoid suspicion as far as I can tell."

"May I ask how you were talking?" Harry asked intrigued.

Richard hesitated before nodding. "Of course. Not much of a secret. Just two way mirrors. We have them installed in our wands. Standard auror equipment. They're only able to be activated by the wand's owner though," he finished, giving Harry a measured look.

"Surely that would mean you could only keep in touch with one of your team?"

"It would, but they're not tied to one another. There's some sort of nexus. I never understood what the mage-tecs do. Clever bit of spellcraft though ..." he trailed off admiringly. "So what's the plan?"

Harry started a little at the assumption that he was in charge. He had not dared to take charge in a long time. "I was thinking we could all do with a bite to eat. So I say we drive down into Rheims, have breakfast and then set off. If you plan out our route that would help. My guess is that we'll be most of the way to Stuttgart by this evening. It can't be more than four or five hours drive. If we carry on the muggle way they aren't likely to ask questions even when we get to the border."

"They won't bother us?"

"I wouldn't think so. The muggles have something. An old treaty called the Schengen Agreement. Oh don't worry about it," he sighed noticing Richard's look of incomprehension. "Just trust me. Anyway the German wards are patchy enough that we'll probably slip through. At least if they haven't changed them."

The sun was beginning to break through the clouds as they drove down into Rheims. Golden rays glittered on the turquoise surface of the river which ran through the centre of the city, splitting it apart like a ripe orange. Along the banks cafés lined the way. Tables and chairs spilled outwards onto the streets. From one or two the faint sound of music could just be heard, brushing the air. Spinning the wheel Harry coaxed the car into a parking space, cobbles grinding under the tyres.

They stepped out, car doors banging as they stretched. Tom was still unnaturally pale, save for the dark circles showing under his eyes and the beginnings of unkempt stubble. He had changed back into his robe, but for once he looked neither deadly nor elegant. Had Harry not known him he would have supposed that he had been out on the lash the night before.

They walked together, three abreast, up the shady street. Harry suppressed a smile at the thought that they could have been three of the most outlandish cowboys ever to grace a western. Tall limes overshadowed the way, covered in the explosion of spring growth. The sun was winning the battle against the rain clouds which were beginning to break apart as they beat a hasty retreat away over the terracotta roofs and chimneys of the city.

The great, yellow-grey bulk of the cathedral, its towers rising high over the surrounding buildings, soared above them. Harry spied a likely café and headed towards it. Set away from the main road the white walls gleamed even under the shade of its neighbours. The awning stood out, almost touching the opposite wall. The peach coloured cloth turned the cobbles below a faint, soft, orange.

The smell of freshly baked bread wafted out of the boulangerie next door as a waiter from the café collected the morning's bread. Around them they could hear the everyday noises of a city awakening. Away in the distance the sound of a woman singing soared into the sky.

Harry led the way inside, taking a seat at one of the small, wrought iron tables. Tom sank down beside him and lowered his head gently into his hands. The waiter approached them and asked something in rapid French. To Harry's surprise Richard answered fluently before turning to the others.

"He's asking what we all want," Richard explained catching Harry's eye.

"Er, coffee please. Black as it can be. And a pan au raisin," he added catching sight of the food display. "Get a baguette too would you?"

"Water," Tom murmured in a monotone, just loud enough to be heard.

"Right." Richard turned back to the waiter and gave their order.

"I didn't know you spoke French, Thorb ... Richard. Good thing though, I was going to have to struggle through with a phrasebook otherwise."

"There _was_ a reason I was sent with you," Richard huffed. "I'm quite adept with languages."

Harry almost apologised before he saw the trace of a laugh in Richard's eyes. "Well, you're hardly here for your looks in any case," he replied, grinning. Mornings were good, mornings weren't the night.

The waiter brought their order and they sat back. Tom sipped at his water whilst the others tucked into their breakfast. Harry kept an eye on the television which sat in one corner. Thankfully there were no reports of escaped convicts, terrorists, or in fact anything of the sort.

Across the street lay a small park, hidden for the most part. Pointed bushes of yew stood like gravestones around the edge and in the centre a curling statue of blue bronze crouched. Nothing stirred save the leaves. Harry turned back to the others, and as he did so caught a glimpse of long red hair, the colour of a flaming sunset. Dismissing it he drained the last of his coffee.

As they left the café he glanced over at the park. Beyond the stone wall, topped with long spikes nothing moved. There was no sign of the owner of the red hair. The park was empty.

Richard looked at him, evidently wondering why they had stopped. "Anything wrong? Have you seen gendarmes or something?"

Harry took one final look at the square of grass, leaves stirred in the breeze. He shook himself. "Nothing," he answered slowly, tearing his eyes away. "Nothing to worry about. Let's just pick up some food for the journey. I don't want to stop until evening."

The arable lands of France stretched away for miles on either side as they left Rheims. In the far distance the green flats eventually rose into low blue hills. Saint-Quentin vanished behind them shortly after they left the city and then they were out on the open road. In their wake first the city and then the town disappeared, swallowed up in the landscape.

The smell of recent rain on the dusty fields of Picardy soaked the car. Trees lined the road. Far to the left Harry caught sight of the spire of some small village climbing up above red tiled roofs, then they were gone. Trees gave way to pylons, which eventually curved away until only the road remained.

* * *

"How far is it to Stuttgart?" Harry asked. The first stars were dancing through the dusky pink glow of evening. The sun was edging close to the horizon; the silvery moon was already visible, outlined between pink and blue.

"Some way yet. We haven't reached the outskirts of the Black Forest," Richard answered wearily from the back seat.

"Any idea where we are?"

Richard glanced down at the map. "We're almost at Phalsbourg. After that it is just a few miles to the forest."

Harry chewed his lip. "I think we'll stop there for the night then. Do we have enough money to rent a room or two? I could do with a bed."

"The Ministry provided me with generous funds."

"Good. We'll call it a day then and stay the night here in Phalsbourg. If there's something attacking people in the Black Forest I don't want to go through it at night."

There was no murmur of dissent and so Harry drove on through the quiet streets of the town. The buildings were covered in peeling, pastel paints; roofs sloped steeply down towards the ground. The green or grey doors sported by many of the houses only added to the atmosphere of tasteful dereliction which the town possessed and which the wooden shutters with their ageing coats of paint further enhanced.

Harry drove slowly, avoiding the potholes which littered the road. As they went further in the dilapidation faded somewhat. The gates to various houses were in better repair. In place of old paint many houses had plain, uniform, fronts of grey stone or cement. Edging the car round one of the many narrow corners Harry came to the central square. Neat, flat, ordered and bounded by well-kept houses and smart businesses it looked like a postcard. In the centre a solid church of blackened stone towered over the trees which grew among the parking lots.

Once out of the car Harry turned his head from side to side, assessing their surroundings. He set off at random, throwing his coat over his shoulders as he went. Tom, somewhat recovered, strode alongside him. Richard followed quietly in their wake.

Boots clicked on the pavement as they wandered into the outer town. Occasionally the children playing in the dust coated streets glanced at them. Above the roof tops the sun sank lower becoming a thin line of red burning across the tiles. The sun rendered rooftops black and featureless silhouettes in its fading light.

As the fresh paint gave way to pockmarked walls and pitted streets they saw the sign for the inn. It was a surprisingly English inn sign to find there, in a German village on the borders of France. It was made from thick, heavy, wood, with a painting upon it. The paint was too old and too worn to be recognisable any more. Despite that homely lights shone out through the frosted panes of glass and from inside came the noise of laughter. A sign in the window read in German, French, and English: _Drink! Board! Lodging! You won't find better!_

"Shall we?" Tom asked the others.

"What? Here?" Richard asked with distaste.

"Sure," Harry said with a shrug. "I haven't seen anywhere else. It's getting late. Something tells me we want to be off the streets before nightfall." He had noted the absence of other wanderers on the shadowy street.

"Couldn't we even _try_ to find somewhere else?"

Harry sighed, exhausted. "We don't even know if this place has any rooms available. We might as well try it." With that he pushed open the door. The inn smelt of wine, beer; alcohol soaked wood; a hint of overcooked meat; wood polish, and the mingling scents of different humans.

The bar was panelled in stained oak. Faux candles in an iron chandelier shed warm light over the room. The tables were largely occupied by locals who only glanced up for a moment. To one side a doorway led away into a yellow painted side parlour. Behind the bar stood a thickly set man with short, greying hair and sky-blue eyes.

Richard grudgingly went to the bar and began to ask the innkeeper about renting a room in workman-like German.

"Hullo, you're English aren't you?" The innkeeper smiled broadly. His thick, ruddy, face bursting into a grin. "I'd recognise that accent anywhere. I'm a Coventry lad myself. Off for a stag-do or something?" he asked, looking at their clothes.

Harry realised with a start that his somewhat antique attire, not to mention Tom and Richard's clothes, were hardly inconspicuous.

"Something like that," Harry cut in, sticking out his hand in greeting. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Harry. These are my friends, Richard and Tom." He smiled pleasantly. Behind him Tom scowled, but kept quiet.

The innkeeper stretched his arm over the worn surface of the bar and shook the proffered hand firmly. "Good to meet you. I'm Steve Barber. What can I do for you lads?"

"We were wondering if you had room for travellers, and if we could get supper?"

"Not many come here for lodging nowadays," Steve chuckled dryly, "but I have rooms around the old place if you want them. We can rustle up something for dinner easily enough."

"Thanks, you've got a good place here. Reminds me of back home," Harry said smiling broadly.

Steve's smile broadened. "Kind of you to say so. I'll go and have Susie dust up the rooms. How many do you want?"

"As long as we have separate beds one or two should be fine. Please don't bother to dust if it's too much trouble," Harry protested.

"No trouble at all lad. She'll be happy. Always tells me we need more travellers in here. Perhaps you're the start of an upturn in business."

"Let's hope so, eh? Looks as if the town's pretty quiet," Harry remarked sympathetically.

"True enough. They say it hasn't been the same since the bad times. I wouldn't know though, too long ago for me." Steve pursed his lips and grimaced. "Still, the future's young."

"I'll drink to that! What would you recommend by the way?" Harry leaned on the counter, swinging himself up onto a bar stool.

"Well," Steve considered the question carefully, "this brew is pretty good." He pointed out one of the taps with a golden bear on a black background. "Nice and bitter."

"Three pints then." Harry waved for Tom and Richard to come forward.

"I'll draw then now then, and have Susie set up the rooms ..."

"I would like to change that order, if you please," Tom interrupted.

"Oh, right," Steve looked a touch put out, "what would you like then?"

"What is your wine selection, Mr Barber?"

"It's Steve, lad. We've got er … red, or … um … white?" It came out as a question as he looked into Tom eyes.

"Red then. If you would be so kind."

Steve nodded. His good mood had largely drained away.

Harry stepped back in, attempting to salvage the atmosphere. "Anything going on tonight then?

"Aye," Steve puffed out his chest at the observation, "it's the story night. I started it up so all the old codgers round here can get together and tell a few yarns. The young folks too actually. That and Kluge is here again of course, not that she gets many challenges anymore." The landlord pulled a pint and handed it to Harry before moving on to the next one.

"Challengers?"

"She plays chess against anyone who is willing to offer up something precious to them as a prize, should she win. In exchange she offers up something important to her."

"She must be very good, or have a lot of stuff if she does this regularly."

The landlord grinned. "She's never lost a match. Here's your pint." He handed a glass to Richard.

"Where's she from? Is she local? Sorry, I suppose she must be if she comes to play here."

"Nah, she comes from some farmstead near the forest itself. A small village a tad to the north. She used to come here with her brother, but he doesn't show up anymore. Thinking of having a go?"

Harry sipped his pint, "Maybe. I don't get to play so much these days. It'd be fun to have a go."

"Good luck to you then: you'll need it. Anyway, got to be doing. I'll bring you a menu in a bit." He rushed off to deal with another customer.

They ate a quiet supper at a table in the corner of the room. Thick sausages and fluffy potatoes sating their appetite. For the most part they did not talk.

"Try not to upset our host will you Tom?"

"Stop calling me that," Tom replied without his usual rancor. "I'll try not to make him _too_ put out."

"Thanks. More potatoes, Richard?"

Richard shook his head, pushing his plate away. He was about to speak when a hush fell over the bar. Steve rapped a long wooden spoon against a copper gong and spoke loudly in German. At Harry's request Richard agreed to translate, "He says that the story-telling will start in fifteen minutes and once the first few stories are over Frau Kluge has offered up the chance for anyone to test their mettle against her. That's the gist of it anyway ..."

" _Why_ do you insist on constantly acting the tourist? It was perfectly good cover in France, but this is ridiculous!" Tom hissed in a frustrated whisper. "How am I to hear anything when you two keep jabbering on?"

Harry blinked in surprise, "You speak German?"

"No. Why should I bother?" Tom looked at him in bemusement before it dawned. "You don't know how to do you? I'll give you a clue, most of the people here _can_ speak it."

Harry frowned in thought for a moment. "You're using leglimancy to draw on their base knowledge of their own language aren't you?"

Tom nodded, "Full marks Potter, well done."

"That's a bit immoral isn't it? Just sifting through other people's brains."

"Why?" He sounded genuinely puzzled. "Surely even you can't feel it is wrong. I don't even hurt them. It helps keep me safe," Tom continued airily. "Now shut up and just lower your shields. You know I can't take a peek, I doubt anyone else here could."

Harry looked away. Though he would never let Tom know it he never kept up mental shields except when absolutely necessary. They gave him infernal headaches. Still extending his mental reach by a touch shouldn't be too hard … for a second he was lost in the wave of competing thoughts. _This must be what it was like for Luna_ , he thought dreamily before he came crashing back to reality. His mind screamed at him **never** to do that again. He rubbed his temples. A more individual approach might be a good idea he decided.

Filtering the thoughts away to leave only the language was tricky, trickier even than he had expected, but eventually he managed it. He returned properly to the room to the second story teller finish, "So she rode away across the sea on the golden road the Sun had made for her. As she reached the end he set, flaming beyond the horizon of this world. Since that time he has let the green flash light the heavens so that her family and friends might know she was alive and well."

There was a polite and in some cases enthusiastic, round of applause.

"Thank you! Now for our third story teller of the evening, I offer you ..." Steve pulled a name out of a hat, "the masterly Herr Eisenburg!"

An old man stepped forward. His skin looked like peach stone. His eyes were so overshadowed by his brow that their colour was indistinguishable. He was straight backed, despite his obvious age. White hair floated lightly around his head in patches like a seeding bullrush. He seated himself and began in a deep, clear voice.

"We all know the terror which besets the great forest as we sit here, safe and warm. Outside these windows it waits for us, ever ready to strike down the unwary."

The room stilled around him. Patrons and bartenders hardly moved an inch, one or two cast nervous glances.

"Many think that this is a new evil. It is not so. Long before the golden days this terror walked.

"There was a Count who ruled over much of this land. His riches were such that money meant nothing to him. He was a kind and gentle man. The vast lands he owned supported him well.

"His fellow lords thought him weak because of his desire for peace. One went so far as to demand tribute. The Count refused. He knew that were he to comply the lord, named Aben, would demand more and more.

"Aben was greatly angered by the Count's defiance and desired vengeance. However, he could do little directly: the Count had the aid and advice of a mighty sorcerer named the white one: Albus. However, Aben was cunning and had no small skill in wizardry. For many months he pored through dusty, long forgotten tomes. In his rage he secrets of the hags, who dwelt in the Black Forest in those days.

"Finally at the dark of the Moon he called upon the blackest of magics. From shadow, from blood, from the coldness of men's hearts and the fear of the night the being was formed.

"The first the Count knew of it was when he came upon a field of red grass. He called the farmer to him and asked how the field came to be this colour, for never had he seen such a thing.

"'Oh sir, 'tis a terrible calamity,' cried the farmer. 'Only yesterday this field was filled with my fifty finest sheep. When I came to them this morning they were gone. This ...' he gestured to the crimson grass, 'is their blood. It is all that I now have left of them.'

"Upon saying this the farmer burst into tears. The Count thanked him, gave him coin in recompense for his lost sheep, and promised to look into the matter.

"For some time he heard nothing more. Then gradually the merchants who had frequented the land came no more. Woodsmen travelled in larger and larger groups. Parties of as many as a score vanished without trace.

"The Count and the sorcerer decided that their best option was to track the monster to its lair. They laid a bait for it with many livestock and hid under the wizard's art until it at last arrived. Its hide was as black as midnight and its claws were as scimitars. Its eyes were coal black and filled with hatred.

"It moved with long, loping bounds. Within moments of its arrival the livestock were dead. It devoured them. It sucked the blood from their bodies and the marrow from their bones before gorging itself on their flesh. The Count drew his sword and would have struck had his friend not held him back.

"'Hold fast,' murmured the wizard, 'this beast is not of natural ilk. Some enemy of thine must have sent it hither. Wait and we may yet put an end to this.'

"Grudgingly the Count acknowledged the wisdom of his friend's words and waited. At last, bloated by the heavy meal, the daemon slunk slowly away. They followed it.

"It led them by stream, river and hill, over great swathes of forest. At last they came to the craggy castle of lord Aben. The walls were empty, as they grew close they saw that only rotting corpses guarded the gate. The festering bodies were dressed in rusted mail and their hearts had been ripped from their chests. Weeds grew between the cobbles. The creature loped through the shattered doors of oak and into the keep. They followed with silent tread, passing decaying servants and rotting tapestries till they came to the chapel.

"The sight which greeted them there was the worst yet. The body of the priest hung, disembowelled above the altar. His blood, still flowing by accursed means, dripped to the creature. The priest had been sacrificed to permit the entrance of the daemon to this world; bloody, ragged sigils, carved deep into his flesh revealed it. In the corner lord Aben crouched. He giggled as he saw them, unable to even move. His mind had been ravaged, though his body was intact. He was an amusing toy for the daemon which fed him on the flesh of his men.

"Then the Count stepped forward, away from the cloak of invisibility which lay over the wizard. He sprang towards the creature and whisked his sword down. As the blade whistled through the air he stepped forward and the rain of blood hit him. He saw the truth as the blood soaked his tunic. At the same instant his sword slammed home at the nape of the monster's neck. Steel shattered as he struck the creature's hide. The beast awoke with a scream of rage. Its tail thrashed from side to side, splintering pews like matchsticks.

"The count was knocked to the wall. His ribs burst through his skin and tunic. Blood sprayed out between his fingers. The beast loomed over him and he threw out his hand. Blood willing sacrificed struck the daemon. It reared away, hissing in agony. He staggered to his feet and advanced upon it. A life had been unwillingly taken to bring the daemon into the world. To free his people of the scourge he had no choice. Without a second thought he thrust his broken blade, still clasped in his hand, into his own heart!

"His blood gushed out. He fell forward and a great wind swept through the castle. It ripped the shutters from their fastenings and tore doors from their hinges. The daemon dissolved into the ether. The wizard leapt forward and forced the daemon's spirit into the golden cross which stood upon the altar. Leaving the wicked lord alive in his madness he left the castle. With the help of a goldsmith he sealed the daemon's spirit inside a casket, made with the gold from the cross, never to be released. The Count was buried with great honour by his people for his sacrifice and peace came to the land.

"Now though the terror walks again. We hear its cry among the trees; we see its shadow in the night, and we fear empty places at our tables."

The applause was muted as he finished. After a few moments Steve coughed nervously.

"Right, well … thanks for that. There will be a short intermission before the next two more stories and then Frau Kluge will be happy to take anyone who dares on. Any contests will be occurring in the parlour."

Harry sat back, his mind buzzing. The story lacked a knowledge of magic worked, but there was something there. He pondered it, almost entirely oblivious to the following stories. Vaguely he listened to a tale about a child named Roland, a church and the elf-king, and then a second spoke of a woman who wandered on moonlit moors searching for a ring.

The story ended and Harry stood up. "I'm going to take a shot at playing Kluge. I guess I'll see the pair of you in a bit," he explained as he left the table.

He squinted around the room, but the old man who had told the story of the Count had vanished. At the bar Steve was pulling a set of pints for a group of young men and women with light blonde hair and cheerful smiles.

He pushed his way through the crowd and into the next room. At a table near the wall a woman of about thirty sat. Her long, copper hair was bound back with a black hair band. She had fair skin dotted with occasional freckles and speckled with a few old chickenpox and acne scars. Her clothes were hard wearing and made in forest colours. A chess board lay in front of her. As yet the pieces were still sitting in a box beside her.

"Good evening," he said in German as he reached the table.

"Good evening. Have you come to challenge me?" She asked the question with a small smile.

"I …" Then he realised she had spoken in English. "You speak English? How did you know _I_ spoke English?"

"I have a _very_ good ear for accents. And yes, I speak English. My grandparents were insistent that we should."

"But, but … I only said hello ..." he spluttered in shock.

She laughed, her face splitting into a crooked grin, "Don't worry. Steve told me that a young, dark haired, Englishman with glasses wished to challenge me. I don't get many challengers nowadays, so I guessed it must be you." Her crooked smile widened revealing a few of her teeth.

Harry snorted with amusement. "Huh. Well done, you got me there. Yes though, I do want to challenge you."

"Very well," she leaned back in her chair. "What do you offer as a prize then? I'm surprised you have anything precious with you this far from home."

Harry frowned, he'd forgotten that aspect. He rummaged through the pockets of his coat. At last his fingers closed on something that trembled slightly in his grip and then fell still. Slowly he drew his closed fist from his pocket. In his hand he held a tiny, golden, ball, feather thin wings clasped to the sides. He thumbed it fondly.

"I won this a long time ago," he half whispered as he stared at it, lost in memories. "An old teacher left it to me. It's supposed to open, I think, but I never found out how to do it." He looked at it sadly. "I'm sorry, I can't offer this, which only leaves me with my name really."

She looked at him, her eyes dancing under the lights, her expression strangely sympathetic, "Sit down. I'll take the bet. If you win I will tell you _my_ real name. If I win you tell me yours. Steve couldn't remember it. How does that sound?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Seems reasonable. Thank you, I didn't imagine you'd be so accommodating."

"You have no idea how long it's been since I had a game." She shrugged lightly. "Ready to begin?"

He nodded absently as she set up the board. It was made of old, finely carved wood, the white playing pieces so tarnished by players that they were barely distinguishable from the black.

"Would you mind if I looked over the pieces? Just to make sure I know which are which."

"Be my guest," she put down the last piece: the black king, "which side would you like to play with?"

Harry considered the question and gave a wry smile. "Black I think."

"Very well. You are the King in Black," she replied as she spun the board around.

Harry turned the pieces over, one by one. At last he came to the black king. It had a faintly vulpine look and the wood was scored over and over as if covered by tiny hairs. Around his brow was wrapped a thin circlet. The piece sat on a tall throne, head on hand as if looking out gloomily upon the carnage to come.

Harry turned the piece over in his hand, feeling the hard grain of the wood under his fingers as he stared at it. "What are they made of?"

"Yew," she pointed to the yellowed white pieces, "and painted blackthorn. Ready to play?"

"Yes, okay."

She slid forward a pawn, wood scraping on wood.

"I hear you come from near the forest," he began as he played his move.

"Yes," she stared at the board for a few moments and added another pawn to a spearlike formation.

"Any truth in that story the old man was telling?" He took the initiative sliding a black pawn into a threatening position.

White took black. "I wouldn't know. I wasn't listening," she answered curtly. Her pawn thumped down hard enough on the board that the figures wobbled with the impact.

He took a pawn back in exchange. "Oh, it was probably nothing. Just some story. People going missing and so on and so forth."

"Why do you want to know?" She asked sharply, her queen sweeping in to put him in check.

He calmly parried the move. "Well, my friends and I are journeying through the Black Forest tomorrow and I just wanted to be sure it'd be safe."

"In day time? Probably. Just don't stop for _anything_ ," she grunted, quietly bringing a knight into play. It was a horseman rearing wildly on a great stallion; a broad brimmed hat shaded his features.

"You make it sound serious. I thought it might just be a story which hit a raw nerve," he lied as he considered his move.

"No," she looked at him steadily. "I wish it were. I lost my brother to whatever is out there. I don't know if it is men or something else, but when I come to town I do not go home at night. Paths are best walked by daylight."

They played on in silence. Harry decided not to press her. To do so when she was grieving her brother would be unfair. A flurry of moves, black took white, white took black. Back and forward across the board their pieces danced. At one moment Harry was sure that he would swoop to victory, only for her forces to encircle him, pick off a soldier and withdraw. He could see the tide of battle swinging into her favour by slow, grudging steps. He had spent years playing chess at first with Ron, and then in memory of Ron when they had parted ways, but no trick worked against her. Wherever his forces prepared to strike they found hers waiting to defend and strike in turn.

At last he was reduced to playing desperate gambits to stave off the inevitable. He winced as her rook swept away his last surviving bishop leaving him facing imminent defeat.

"Ouch. I'm glad you changed the stakes after all. I haven't had a match like this in decades."

"Decades? You can't be that old. You're younger than me." She gave a bark of laughter, closing the net around his king.

There was always the chance she'd make a mistake and they'd end up with a stalemate. He played on. "I'm older than I look you know."

"Hmm, how old's that then?" She slid her queen closer. One more till checkmate. The black king toppled over, defeated.

She held out her hand and he shook it. "Good game. So how old?"

"I never promised to tell you that," he said with a wink and a grin. Around them the pub-goers were filtering out one by one. "Are you staying nearby tonight? I can walk you back if you'd care."

She quirked her lips in an expression of amusement, "That won't be necessary, thank you. Steve lets me stay here when I come to play."

"Oh well then I guess I'll have to walk you back. My friends and I are staying the night here too."

She smiled warmly, "In that case it would be lovely. First though I must collect on what you owe me ..."

"Harry, Harry Potter," he said surprising himself with the truth.

A vague look flickered across her face for a moment and then faded. "A pleasure Mr Potter."

"Do I get to know your name?"

She laughed, a throaty bark of sound. "Oh no, you didn't win. Perhaps if you come back and play me again some other time. For now though you may walk me to my room."

* * *

Harry sank backwards onto the narrow bed which creaked under his weight. He was sitting in the low attic room which he and Tom were sharing. Richard had claimed the single room on the floor below and upon seeing the rooms fuchsia pink walls even Tom had raised no objections to sharing the attic.

The silence stretched on. Outside a bird called. Below the window a pair of feet walked along, the muffled tread echoed in the lamp lit street.

"Why are you still here?"

Tom looked at him with a level gaze, "What do you mean?"

"I know you don't want to be here. I know why you didn't escape on the train. Why are you still here now though?"

Tom looked up at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head. "Let's just say that for the moment I am protecting my investments."


	6. The First Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The readers are invited to observe an old friend and welcome a new one to the story.

 

**An Interlude in Two Parts**

_4th March, Malfoy Manor:_

Livia crept up the polished floor of the long dining room. Her fingers brushed over the inky wood of the table. The air was unnaturally still, even stifling. The smells of wood, wax and swept ashes permeated the room. Thick, dark green curtains lay half closed. Dust motes danced in watery sunlight. Her grandfather stood at the head of the table. He was facing away from her, staring up at the family tapestry.

He spoke softly, "Hello Livia. How goes it in the Wizangamot?"

"Poorly Grandfather. The lords refuse to see the need for a treaty with Argentina. They believe we are invincible," she said, stepping closer. Her eyes took in every detail, calculating.

He chuckled dryly, "How appropriate. Hoist by our own propaganda. What fools we mortals be. We never see the bigger picture." He turned and his velvet cloak swept behind him.

"Don't worry Grandfather. They can be won over, it will simply take time. Perhaps a concession on the mudbloods ..." she suggested.

"We can't," he answered. "I have betrayed my own beliefs, my father's beliefs and all my forefathers before him. However, I will not undo that work. New blood is still _necessary_. The long war did too much damage.

"If the lords were capable of thought they would realise their own blood is hardly pure. Who do they even think is left? The Blacks? The Dumbledores? Perhaps they imagine heirs to the Longbottom and Prewett names will spring from the earth if they pray hard enough. Maybe the Gaunts and the Peverells will return and set all to rights. The old houses are dead, save for the Malfoys."

"I know Grandfather. Nonetheless they want acknowledgement that they are different … better."

"Everyone wants that. I have something better to give them though. Hatred. We can make them remember their hatred for Europeans, their fear. They will cling to hems of our robes. The idiots we sent to the Princess have kicked a hornet's nest into life. I received the report this morning," his eyes sparkled.

"Really? How?"

"They decided the best way to get across the border was in a blaze of fire. The French are on the verge of declaring war on us. Hush, hush, do not panic. They won't for the moment. War will come, and it will be on our terms. We've played the entire affair as something the French cooked up. Then there is the mess they made of the gate at Calais we have an unparalleled opportunity.

"Though Nott will not be able to help relieve my annoyance at the fiasco. Poor fellow committed suicide yesterday. I wonder what could have driven him to it …" he smiled thinly. A knock at the door brought him out of his reverie. "Come in."

A diminutive house-elf with rust coloured skin which fell in crusty folds entered the room and bowed low. "Master, the summoned goblins are here. Must Bucket bring them in?" His voice sounded like nails on a blackboard.

"Shortly. Offer drinks and food. Give them bread, salt and wine. Tell me if any of them refuse. I will summon you when I am free to see them," Draco replied and turned his attention back to Livia. "Damn it all. I expected it to be another half hour before they arrived. I'm afraid I must ask you to go my dear. Will I see you at supper?"

Livia bit her lip. "Yes, of course," she said, "Grandfather … do we even know they are still loyal? I know it won't matter in the long run, but ..."

"My dear, their loyalty was never the point. I thought you would have known that," he said, shaking his head in disappointment.

"How could I have known Grandfather? You never tell us anything."

"Of course not Livia," he said. "If I told even half of what I knew or suspected you'd have killed me long ago. Were it not for the fact that the most recent assassination attempts have been so half hearted I might have thought you were behind them."

"Come now Grandfather ..."

"Do not think of lying to _me_ child. I know you plan to depose me. You are of my blood," he said with a small shrug.

"I promise you will never hear of a plot against your life which _I_ organise, Grandfather," she assured him

"That's my girl. For now all we need do is ensure Potter maintains focus. If he does he'll drag our erstwhile lord along with him. As long as he remembers his 'duty' he'll do our bidding. If you think of anything tell me at supper. I have a plan or two," he smiled genially at her and waved her away. He stretched and sat beneath the family tree. He grimaced in pain and pressed his hand to the left-hand side of his chest as he settled himseld, resting for a moment.

"I'll see to it Grandfather. Grandfather ... Astoria's portrait is asking for you again ..." she trailed off. She could not remember how many times she had reported the portrait's plea.

"Thank you," his reply was soft, but there was no promise that he would go to see his late wife. Livia left the room.

_A good girl, Livia_ , he mused as he snapped his fingers for Bucket. _O _ne to keep an eye on.__

Five goblins entered walking abreast. They were clad in suits of ceremonial armour with hardly a weapon in sight, bar the swords strapped to their backs. A wyvern crested helm rested on their leader's head, adding another foot to his height. Draco nodded to them, politely, but he did not stand.

"Greetings Draco, master of house Malfoy, and Minister of the wizards and witches of Great Britain and her provinces. I, ward-lord of Gringotts, thank you for extending your hospitality to me and mine," their leader said hoarsely.

Draco gestured for them to sit. "Greetings, Nastrond, high ward-lord and marshal of house Drapnuk. I offer you hospitality and safety within these walls." Draco almost sneered at the ridiculous creatures with their high and mighty titles, though he had to admit they did earn them.

"We accept most gratefully and swear that no harm shall come to you or yours by our hands," Nastrond croaked. "Now down to business."

"I have two requests," Draco began. "First I wish to consult your expertise on wards; secondly, I would like you deliver a request: I desire to meet the present Goblin King."

Nastrond's eyes narrowed to slits, "There has been no Goblin King in five hundred years. Are you implying that my kind have broken the long truce?"

Draco yawned, "Come now. We both know that isn't true. I killed the last Goblin king … I do apologise, I mean one of the latest Goblin Kings, myself. A hundred years ago."

"A rebel. He was not recognised as king."

Draco drew himself up, towering over the goblins, "Let us be frank. I do not _care_. You can have your kings. What I want is to meet him. I have a deal to propose, a deal which I _think_ he will gladly accept. I even have a token of goodwill for him, if you are willing to consider it."

Nastrond paused, the possibility of no-strings attached profit was tempting. He could always refuse the deal later, "Go on ..."

"If you pass my message on to the king I will tell you the location of the only living man who has successfully stolen from you and another who escaped you," Draco promised; goblins adore revenge more than gold.

Nastrond's eyes closed for a moment as he deliberated. Opening them he splayed his long fingers on the table. "I fear I am not the goblin for this task, Lord Malfoy. Perhaps if you pay the commission for the consultation on the wards we can arrange a meeting between an ambassador and your good self."

Draco inclined his head politely, "An excellent suggestion, with one minor problem: I wish to meet the king, not his servants. I might become uncooperative if you did not make sure that the Goblin King himself is notified. Then again he might execute his own wrath upon you should he find that you, by your hesitation, refused the bargain I am offering. The second part of the price I will pay is, I assure you, something he would be interested in."

"Would you care to elaborate?" Suggested the goblin.

"Imagine a kingdom, free from Wizarding influence," Draco replied. "Give me your answer at the end of the consultation. Payment for your opinion on the small matter of the trans-Channel wards shall be transferred from the Ministry's private vaults to those of Gringotts in unmarked bars of gold."

Nastrond scowled. He lacked the political weight to negotiate as an equal, but it galled him to serve as a messenger, "Very well."

"It is quite simple really: would you as Gringotts' high ward-lord be prepared to state that the wards between Europe and Britain are impenetrable without inside help?"

Nastrond smild unpleasantly. "I really couldn't comment Minister. It would take time to think through the problems. Time is gold."

"How much … _time_ would you need?" Draco asked. Goblins were wonderfully straight forward when it comes to making agreements. Nastrond's opposite in France was almost certainly making a parallel agreement. Sometimes the playing field had to be balanced.

"I think that three days at my usual rate will do. You will get the reply to your other question at the same time," Nastrond's smile widened, baring far too many teeth.

Draco nodded again, more slowly. Nastrond's rates were extortionate. However, he could not afford to offend the goblin any further. "That sounds wonderful. I look forward to our next meeting."

Nastrond stood, gave a curt bow, spun on his heel and marched out of the room followed by his guards. Draco sat there for a time. His eyes were closed and he breathed slowly and carefully, hand rubbing at his chest. After a little he smiled softly and began to hum. With a snap of his fingers a map of the world materialised on the table in front of him, small figures dotted over its surface. It looks somewhat like a Risk board.

He slid a figure over the English Channel into the section devoted to Calais. There were quite a lot of figures there now, a small army. A set of miniature goblins materialised at the top of the board, ready to be deployed. In Germany three tiny figures were set to cross the Black Forest.

_A remote corner of China, 5th March:_

Figures who had once scurried over the dig site like a swarm of maddened ants now sat around or lay in their tents, avoiding the baking heat of the day. Activity had dropped to nothing as they waited for permission to continue. Two or three muggleborns had set up a rudimentary tennis court and were working on creating rackets and teaching the others to play. So far the strings' tension had been terrible and most of the time the players resorted to ping-pong like bats.

The French government, which had been forced to promise a number of favours to the Chinese Republic and its Grand Wizard to gain permission to begin the dig, had called a sudden halt to the dig after a particularly exceptional find. The dig was not terribly out of the ordinary. It had been commissioned on the basis of a research paper by the leading magio-archaeologist of the Spring period of the Eastern Zhou dynasty. That archaeologist was now out from behind her desk and leading the expedition to her great pleasure. What was unusual was that the Département de l'Inconnaissable had funded the dig.

The reason for the interest? Michelle Ego, leader of the expedition, could not have told you. The site _was,_ her paper had argued, the location of the defeat of the African sorcerer Mustaphar. A man who in his time had been a great and feared wizard. According to myth he had been defeated by the thief Alah-al-din and his allies. Michelle did not listen to myths, she listened to facts. If she listened to myths she would be off hunting things like the Elder Wand, not unearthing a battle site.

So far all the evidence supported her paper and research application. They had found numerous traces of magical residue resonating throughout the hill, and even a shrine or two. The shrines had probably been built by _muggles_ to the gods they must have believed had waged war upon the spot. Nevertheless, they were still interesting to the archaelogists. The most remarkable discovery though had come only weeks before.

They had uncovered a perfectly preserved statue of a man, carved, or moulded by magic. No chisel mark or scratch of power marred the ashen stone. Even the eyelashes were still perfectly preserved beneath the heavy brow. Though not tall, perhaps marginally shorter than Michelle, there was something impressive about him. Something which drew the eye. The statue wore a long, cowled robe, decorated by occasional tassels, knots and love charms. His right hand was extended, pointing to some unseen foe, the index finger pointed accusingly. A short beard, hardly more than stubble, covered the broad, frozen chin. The face was contorted in anger and the dark brows were drawn together beneath a furrowed line.

It was this discovery which had sent the Ministry supervisors of the dig dashing back to France. Now a team of the finest, most experienced and most expensive cursebreakers and enchanters had arrived to do _something_. They were all legendary, if only in many cases for their mercenary natures. Bounty hunters looked good next to these witches and wizards.

Michelle sighed as she dusted the last of the clay from the statue's eyes with a fine, unicorn-hair brush. Magic was far too dangerous to risk around a find like this; not that it mattered much, magic seemed to frequently fail around the digsite. If that had not been the case she would at least have had a cooling charm on the tent. She wiped a grubby hand across her forehead, wiping away the sweat.

It was heart-breaking. All her research, all of the excavations she and her team had done. Their painstaking care, and now it seemed her greatest find would be snatched from under her nose by the Département de l'Inconnaissable. _Bastards_.

The blue canvas of the tent rippled around her in a soft breeze. She started, shock out of her reverie by the gentle zephyr. Straightening up she reluctantly decided that she ought to go and freshen up. There was a faint hope that she might be able to plead her case to the Ministry official who would be leading the mercenaries.

"Good luck old man. I hope they take care of you," she murmured to the statue before turning and leaving the tent. There was _so_ much she could have learnt from him. If only she'd had more time: styles of dress; the way in which he had been created; the techniques used to do it; possessions a wizard might have been expected to carry. The Chinese conception of African sorcerers in the sixth century would have made a magnificent paper. The statue could have revolutionised the entire field. To see such an artefact – the statue of one of the most terrible magicians in recorded history – a statue dating almost from the time of Mustaphar's defeat … it was extraordinary, thrilling even. The sky was slowly filling with rolling masses of black cloud. They spread down from the north like ribbons of sea stained kelp. The very peak of the clouds, still illuminated by the sunlight, were still a bright, startling white.

Twenty minutes later the Ministry official arrived. He was a tall, pale young man with small glasses and a thin nose. He was followed by the cursebreakers who eyed the camp with the eyes of hungry wolves.

"Bloody tomb raiders," she muttered as the official approached her. He shooed a haughty pigeon out of his path.

With a nod from the official the cursebreakers set off for the blue tent in the centre of the camp, eager to examine the statue. They barely paused as they reached the security charms the archaeologists had set around it. Michelle suppressed a surge of anger at their arrogance and turned to the Ministry official, smiling sweetly.

"Excuse me, Monsieur," she began, stepping towards him.

He cut her off abruptly, "Mademoiselle, the Ministry thanks you for being so obliging. However, I am under orders to insist that you and your team are to leave this area immediately. I am sure you will act with alacrity." He smiled at her, brushing a lock of chestnut hair away from his forehead. Despite her annoyance she felt her heart miss a beat, dammit, he was good looking.

From the tent behind her she heard muttered incantations. Even where she stood the flares of magic were making the hairs on her spine prickle.

"I don't think you understand the importance of what we've found here. The artefact which your hired monkeys are quite possibly destroying is of irreplaceable historical impor …" she began, plastering the smile back onto her face, quashing the desire to scream at him to make them stop before they damaged her priceless statue. What were they doing that they needed cursebreakers anyway?

"Mademoiselle, I understand better than you think. Perhaps even better than you do. I am sorry, but I _must_ ask you to leave now," the hint of urgency in his voice was clear now. His eyes were flickering between her and the tent with a frantic speed.

"Why? At least tell me that," she asked, catching onto his sleeve as he made to push past her. If she had to leave the crowning achievement of her career behind she would be damned if she didn't know why.

"I can't. This mission is paramount to the security of the state. That should be enough for you. That _must_ be enough for you."

"I'm sorry, but it isn't. If your blockheads destroy a _priceless_ artefact the least you can tell me is why."

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose before he answered, "How much do you know about the statue and the man it represents? Briefly."

She frowned, puzzled, "It is a statue of the sorcerer Mustaphar. He came to China in the sixth century BC to obtain a rare magical object and to continue his practice of defeating the greatest local wizards in combat. The statue is easily identifiable …"

He held up a hand to stop her. His eyes focused on her shoes. "Very good, very good. Now what does legend say happened to him?"

"Legend," she said, injecting those two syllables with as much derision as she could, "has it that he was beaten by a muggle thief. The legend is patently ridiculous. We should stick to the known facts."

He nodded without much feeling, "True, but remember that legend also says that the thief was aided by one of the djinn, perhaps the greatest and last of all their number. Crucially, the magic of the djinns does not allow them to kill ..."

She blanched, "You can't mean ..."

Away over the hills thunder rolled in a deep booming wave. The sound crashed down, pounding the air like gargantuan fists.

"I can, and I do. Why do you think the Ministry agreed to fund this? Now the time has come for you to leave," he looked down at her like a stork watching some infinitely smaller bird and wishing that it too could shelter from the storm which was coming. She realised for the first time that his pallor was not natural. "You have your explanation."

"You're going to wake him? Are you insane? You won't even be able to talk to him!" She shouted over the gathering wind, her voice barely audible as it whipped around them.

"Go Mademoiselle Ego. I have already told you more than my job is worth and quite possibly more than my life too. I am the Ministry's official representative to him. What happens next is my own affair. I have my duty to perform," he wrenched his sleeve from her grasp and began walking down the dusty grass towards the tent. For a moment she looked after him before she hurried away, frantically gathering people together and urging them to leave.

The spell binding the statue was a work of art. A chain of spells, looped, locked and interlinked to preserve the target as stone forever, never dying, never changing. A frozen moment of time. It was not even particularly complex. The spell was elegant, refined and perfect. The ward experts could do little. This magic relied on no runes. There was to be no bypassing of hidden traps or subtle contests of ingenuity. The magic was a living thing, ever changing, swirling around not just the statue but the hill as well. Even so the cursebreakers were making headway. They channelled power into the various sections of the spell so that piece by piece they forced other segments out of alignment. The magic was reaching critical levels. Light spiralled and spilled into the room from _elsewhere_ _._

"Containment shields in place," announced a blue haired, Ukranian, woman as she flicked her wand once more. She scuttled backwards to place a small, flat sandstone pebble the size of a two pence piece, on which a rune was carved precisely into the soft stone. Pressing her wand to it she poured power into the rune before running backwards once more.

"Secondary wards prepared," another of them called. His forked beard shook as a great wind whirled around them with a sigh as if the spirits of the forgotten were finding their way home. Dust lifted into the air, tiny forks of lightning crackled inside the shield.

"Sandstone? Really?" One whose accent might have been Russian asked incredulously even as he began to pour in power along with the others. A blue dome of light rose around the area which the nine of them surrounded. Within it a second dome of pale gold shone brightly, protecting them from all that occurred within.

She shrugged, "It'll release its power faster if we have an unexpected burst of power. Less likely to get a cascade this way. If _I_ were in charge we'd do a final heavy duty ward in dragonbone in any case …"

"Takes too much time. These will block most spells, if anything forces a cascade it won't be too large for the containment shields to cope. I think nine of us ought to be able to restrain one old wizard. The man's literally a fossil!"

Magic surged inside the ward with a sudden ferocity. The air split apart with a howling moan and dust whirled in a tornado behind the shields. A crack of thunder boomed and all was still. There was silence. They peered into the dry, brown, floating dust. From inside the wards came a rusty, coughing, breath and then another. There was a thump and the air cleared. Mustaphar looked at them, straightening up as he did so, no small degree of surprise covered his features. It was swiftly mastered.

His robe was a rich burnt-siene. He stared at them and they froze in place until it turned away. Finally, after he had turned a full circle, he spoke. Whatever it was he said though was incomprehensible. Though there were hints of mystery, wonder and enchantment. Then, seeing that they could not understand him he swore; at least they presumed he swore from his tone.

He looked at them and a small grin tugged at his lips. He glanced over the runestones placed over the ground. He ran his hand over the air which shimmered and sparkled as he brushed it. With a grin he pinched the air as if it were cloth and pulled, the stone closest to him leapt out of alignment. There was a small flash, a smell of burning ozone and he stepped through the ward. A ball of power robbed from the wardstones glowed in his hand.

The cursebreakers took a step backwards. A second later the containment shield rippled and tore apart as he thrust the glowing energy straight into it. The blue light ripped like a curtain and he was through. Two of the cursebreakers raised their wands. With a snap of his fingers the wands were ripped from their owner's hands; he caught them easily. The others reacted like lightning. Stunners flew across the room. He danced in and out among the jets of light, if he could raise a shield he did not attempt to. His staff swung in his hand and a beam of red light broke apart on it, shooting towards three of his assailants. Two dodged, one didn't. Three down, six left. The two who had lost their wands had been reaching for their backups when his staff cracked them around the skull and they dropped into enchanted sleep.

A Peruvian flesh-eating curse shot past his ear as an enchanters upped the game. It hit the canvas wall of the tent which began to dissolve into thick, black, sludge. Mustaphar moved like lightning. Ducking under the enchanter's wand arm he lifted the man and used him to catch a triplet of stunners. Then with a grunt he hurled him into the black pool of liquid. It sucked inwards towards the body, leaving the rest of the tent untouched. The man withered, prune-like, before exploding into soft dust. The sorcerer's hand rose as he twirled his staff to deflect spells. He frowned and then with a cheery wink he curled the fingers of his left hand. The canvas sprung to life, trapping the other wizards, forcing them to drop their wands. He leant on his staff, breathing lightly.

Through the gap in the canvas stepped a tall man with pale skin and chestnut hair. Mustaphar appraised him as he offered a short bow and opened his hands to show that he carried no weapon. Mustaphar beckoned him forward and took the piece of parchment with its message scrawled in ancient Chinese from him. He looked at it for a moment in bemusement and tossed it aside.

His hand struck with the speed of a cobra, gripping the man's scalp. The French official fell to his knees whimpering as Mustaphar tore through his mind. Images, thoughts, memories, languages, long buried secrets and forgotten dreams, all that made up the man poured through Mustaphar. Like a sieve he filtered out those parts he needed and released the hyperventilating man. The official collapsed to the ground, twitching. Mustaphar paused and bent down, running his fingers over the man's eyelids sending him to sleep.

Mustaphar stood, surveying the wide eyed horror of his captives. His staff twisted a symbol in the air and thumped once on the ground. They fell into unconsciousness as the sleep spell washed over them. He might punish those who sought to use him, but these men were merely hired dogs. He could respect that. A smile flashed over his face as he looked at them, the smile a jovial father might have given his son. Still waste not want not. He perused their minds one by one, selecting what knowledge he deemed useful. Most of it would probably fade before long, but there was always the chance he'd keep hold of some of it. Then he pressed his staff to their heads, removing the memory of the day's events.

He stepped outside the tent, feeling air upon his cheeks for the first time in millennia. It was good to be alive. The man and his overlords might have intended to use him, but the idea of testing his mettle against the self-proclaimed Lord Voldemort he had found in their heads was tempting. After that he could deal with those who had dared to think of controlling him.

He half wondered about hiring a few of the mercenaries, but it wouldn't really be sporting to do so. After that rogue had beaten him by cheating he was quite set on fair victories, well relatively fair. The sun shone down upon him, breaking through the heavy storm clouds. He picked up a handful of the wands which they had dropped, choosing two which felt most comfortable and stuck them into his belt. Life was good. He smiled and started walking down a nearby track towards a local town. Behind him the rain continued to fall on the dig site turning it into a mire of mud.


	7. Merchants and Meddlers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry arrives with his companions in the city of Stuttgart, which turns out to be a great deal more interesting to wizards than you might expect.

 

**Merchants and Meddlers**

Magical Stuttgart is like no other city upon this earth. When it was first built, its creators placed it outside the normal loop of time. It lies in a place that might have been anywhere, a place which bears no relation to non-magical Stuttgart. Though sometimes, when the winds blow from the north, and it rains on an equinox, the cities mingled. The high, limestone walls fade into view between the shops and houses of the muggle city. City is perhaps too grand a term: there are hardly more than twelve thousand inhabitants, humans, goblins and dwarfs combined.

In the centre of the city stands the Hill of Tears, there the citadel rises up in spiralling minarets and towers. The palace looms over the surrounding landscape. Thick walls, fifty feet high, run around the summit on every side bar one where an impassable cliff face serves as defence. There the castle, its gardens, opera house, ball rooms, banqueting halls, and baths lie. Above them soars the great tower which rises upwards by another two hundred feet. Within the tower’s walls lie the great runestones which hold the city apart from time and place.

Inside the rock of the citadel run kitchens, bedrooms, a morgue, forges, hidden gardens of enchanted moonlight, fountains of liquid jewels, trees of crystal, and uncounted passages. On the spur of mount lie the stables of the winged granian horses, descended from the steed of Sigurd the Dragonslayer. On the cliff face lie the apartments of the Grand Princess whose rooms look eastwards towards the Sun which never rises.

Above it all the velvet sky swims with stars and the Moon glows almost as brightly as the absent Sun. Where Stuttgart came from is a mystery. Most believe it was the last outpost of the Atlantean Empire, the only city to survive the Ruin.

Harry had been to Stuttgart once before, many years ago. Nevertheless, he gasped as he passed under the arch of wild briars which lay in a section of forsaken wasteland in muggle Stuttgart's outskirts. It was like stepping out of the real world and into fairyland.

Goblin vendors cried out the prices of glistening, gleaming fruit. Dwarves hawked delicate bracelets and caskets of unbreakable crystal. Thin, pale creatures, with translucent glassy flesh, moved with careful grace around stalls. They played fiddles, reed pipes and lute-like, instruments; wild hair fell around their faces as they danced to the music. The air was tinged with the smells of flowers, spices and fruit.

He knew Tom felt it too. He could still feel that brief, breath-stopping, shudder of amazement through their connection. For a moment they paused. They were alike in some ways, Dumbledore had been right, perhaps more right than he had known. Tom had always been dangerous, but Dumbledore's instant distrust of him and instant care for Harry had perhaps done his judgement of the two of them a disservice. A figure pulled at his sleeve. Harry dragged his attention away from the city.

"You look like a warrior sir. Perhaps you'd be interested in my wares. Finest steel this side of," the dwarf's black eyebrows knitted together for a moment, "everywhere!" He declared with triumphant enthusiasm.

"I'm afraid not. I am no warrior. There is business I must attend to elsewhere," Harry tried to pull away from the dwarf's grip but he was held fast, chisel like finger tips digging into Harry’s arm. For someone four feet tall the dwarf was incredibly strong. "Let me go. I have no times for your wares." The dwarf scowled and relaxed his grip as Harry wriggled away.

"Don't forget Bjorn's steel. Finest there is," the dwarf called after him as he slipped away into the crowd trying to catch up with Tom and Richard. Dwarves almost never changed, Nordic names and an obsession with steel seemed almost universal amongst them. The only time he'd met any who seemed to be seeking new economic avenues they'd been dressed up as cupids. He wasn't sure which he preferred.

He looked around, Tom and Richard were almost out of sight. Tom's sleek, dark head bobbed around in the crowd. He set off after them, dodging an unhealthily thin lios-alfar. He swerved around a small child who was chasing a tiny chariot that swept through the air, pulled by a score of butterflies. The butterflies’ wings burnt a crystal blue in the starlight, like tiny flames. He saw the two men turn into a side-street. Leaping over a bench he pushed his way to the street, only to find that it was a dead end. Huge blocks of golden limestone had been fitted together with hardly any sign of seam or join between them. Washing hung overhead, drying on a line strung between the buildings.

Harry swore and kicked a cobblestone. The blow only scratched the leather of his boot and hurt his toe. He swore again. By the look of it the Princess knew they were in the city. On his last visit Harry had discovered from the Prince of the city, a Machiavellian old man, that the ruler could reorganise the streets at will. That he had been separated from the rest of the part was almost certainly no accident. He raised a middle finger to the blank wall. If she was anything like her predecessor the Princess was probably scrying him at that moment. Apologies could always be proffered later.

He strolled back into the main street. If he was to be redirected he might as well enjoy himself. The street wound around the acropolis of the citadel. It snaked through the market and more established shops. It also happened to be one of the three sections of the city relatively unlikely to shift position, along with the citadel and the walls.

Great hesperidan apple trees with impossibly high trunks lined the street. Golden apples hung just out of reach. He ran a hand over the soft, silvery bark, and smiled. Above the ever-blossoming buds of white flowers filled the air with a sweet, gentle scent. Harry basked in the peace of the avenue. Vendors kept away from this part of the street and the leaves hid the market stalls. Above him wind chimes whistled mournfully or rang with silvery notes.

Then he turned peering into the corner of the street, into the shadows. For a few moments he had been certain that someone was watching him, but there was no one in sight. He drew his wand and cast a handful of the more paranoid detection charms. Nothing appeared to be there. That left, of course, the Princess or someone else scrying on him. Still there was nothing more he could do against it without remaining in a fixed location.

Eventually he left the apple blossom and moved back into the noise of the market. Harry tried to dodge as a slim, dapper looking man with fastidiously neat black robes trimmed in burgundy silk approached him, but it was already too late.

"Excuse me sir," the man began with an unctuous smile. "Would you care to look over our shop?" He gestured to an elegant building with an understated sign above the door:  _Melonie's Mysteries_. "All our products are guaranteed to spice up your love life."

Harry glared at the man who continued to smile.

"No."

"Come now sir, you wouldn't want to become stuck in a rut ..."

"Either move out of my way or I will ensure you never have a use for a single one of your products again," Harry stated, slowly and clearly, staring levelly into the man's eyes. He tried to step around the man only to be blocked again.

"Nothing I haven't heard before sir. At least take this free sample, a single hair given with consent for a polyjuice potion. All perfectly legal I assure you," he stepped up to Harry and pressed a small phial into his coat pocket wrapped up in a flyer, "just come back if you want the potion to go with it!" He called out after Harry as he was finally simply pushed aside.

Harry strode on fuming, repressing the urge to go back and cover the salesman jinxes. He looked around for a bin for the phial, but there were none in sight so he simply pushed the small tube with its single ash blonde hair into his pocket.

The citadel loomed ahead on its hill. The feeling of someone watching him was growing more acute and he turned off into a side street. An arched roof stretched over the narrow passage, turning it into a tunnel. Cobblestones gleamed underfoot, reflecting the light from either end. Footsteps followed him and he dodged round a corner into a courtyard ringed by a cloister like colonnade. There was a small shop on his right, a battered sign above the door read: _The Collector’s Convenience. Whenever and wherever you need us, we’ll be there._ He ducked into the shop on his right, bending to avoid the lintel of the tiny doorway. A bell jangled as he entered. There was no one in sight and the shop was filled with bits and pieces of brick-a-brack. Outside footsteps passed by. There was a faint smell of fireworks and old mothballs in the air.

From the back of the shop he could hear voices, "They refused to move us back onto the high street then?" One cawed in sympathetic disappointment.

"Yes. Bloody prejudice against goblins," a second gravelly voice grumbled.

"We could petition the Princess ..." voice number one suggested doubtfully.

Harry glanced around uneasily at the shop. He turned noticing a long, leaf shaped, obsidian, dagger which gleamed as if touched with water. The note beside it, written in a cursive hand read:  _Sacrificial dagger of the High Priest of Mork. Dates to the fourth century of the Goblin Calendar (replica)_. The word "replica" was added in a tentative hand as if the writer were not quite sure. Harry shivered and turned away. He pulled up short as he met the beady, black eyes of a goblin with wrinkled, mottled skin the colour of whey and the brand of an exile upon his brow.

"Can I help you?" It sounded like a death threat. If it were a death threat Harry decided that he should leave the shop quickly, very quickly. That dagger was _sharp_.

"I was just browsing," he replied, trying to look anywhere but at the goblin's teeth. Behind the goblin a large raven entered the main room of the shop. It hopped onto the counter tilting its head to inspect Harry like a piece of carrion.

"Lovely, lovely. Feel free to point out anything you want to buy," the raven croaked with a passable effort at a friendly tone of voice. “Bloodcrust and I are at your service," it announced formally.

"And I at yours Herr Raven," Harry replied automatically, "Might we speak in English? My German is not good." Away from the busy street and all the open mind's Harry's borrowed knowledge was rapidly slipping from his mind like rain from a tiled roof.

"Certainly," replied the raven with a formal bob of his head, "I am quite able to speak English."

The conversation behind Harry resumed as he turned away into the shop. If it had not been for the lurker he would have been pleased to browse for hours. Tiny, spinning tops with strange runes on them spun without faltering; a sailing boat of flowers circled the room pursued by shadow wolves, and deck of Marsailles cards lay upon a slowly turning table. Two cards,  _L'Empereur_ and the  _Knight of Wands_ were upturned.

He turned down a small aisle in the shop, glancing to his right and left. There were a handful of books. His eyes scanned the titles of a couple of them:  _Words of Power: Languages and the Keys to Magic_ , by S. Hawk;  _Manfred and Other Poems_  by Lord Byron. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Then he saw it. Upon a small, concave mirror lay a glass eyeball with an electric blue iris. It swivelled to look at him and he half jumped backwards. The stone window frame brought him up short and his foot tangled in a wicker basket. He steadied himself on the wall, pulling his foot out of the basket.

The eye was unmistakable, he had last seen it at the Battle of the Seven Potters.

_July 27th 1997 above Little Whinging_

"Sectumsem …" Snape's cry was silenced forever as Remus Lupin's blasting curse caught him in the throat, crushing his wind pipe.

Harry stared in shock as Snape plummeted out of sight. Then a green jet of light flew over his ear and he dived into a barrel roll on his broom, dodging blasts with ease. He dove straight downwards presenting the smallest target for his attackers. Lupin followed, barely keeping up. They surged away from the Death Eaters, shooting through a wood as Harry made turns around tree trunks at angles so shallow that leaves brushed his face.

"Harry," Lupin called, "slow down. The Death Eater's may have flown over the wood. We're outside the restrictions the Ministry placed. If you just slow down I'll side-along with you."

Harry nodded and as he caught sight of the end to the trees. Wide, flat fields lay beyond. He slowed for a moment allowing Lupin to draw level. They clasped hands and spun in the air, vanishing with a crack, appearing metres away from the wards of the safe-house. The Death Eaters were nowhere in sight. Their momentum carried them on through the wards and then braking they spiralled down to the earth.

Lupin staggered as he landed his face ashen. Harry caught his elbow, supporting him as they walked slowly towards the friendly lights of the Burrow.

"Remus, are you okay?"

Lupin shook his head, "I'm fine Harry," he said slowly, "I'm sorry. I haven't killed anyone since the last war. It … it isn't easy, but it was either him or us."

"It's okay Remus. You did what you had to," he steeled himself, "sometimes the end justifies the means. I'm just sorry that you were the one who had to take him down. Do you want to stay out here for a little?"

"No, no. We mustn't leave Molly worrying. She'll be a wreck as it is if any of the others have told her about the Death Eaters waiting for us."

They turned towards the house, hoping against hope that the others were to arrive safely as a white owl circled down from above. It was to be a long night. Bill and Fleur had fallen. The survivors treated the wounds Hagrid had taken defending George. Mad-Eye turned up, half crazed and missing the trademark eye which he had thrown in front of a killing curse from Voldemort himself.

Harry shook himself out of his memories and looked back at the small orb. How it had come here, to this place, he had no idea. Picking it up he looked for a price, but there was none, only a hairline fracture running over its side. It had been too much to hope that it would have survived unharmed, if it was even the same eye.

He held it up, trying to look through it. The glass was opaque. He turned around holding it up to the light of the window, but there was no change. Outside the window though there were high black boots, pacing back and forward in the square.

He crept closer to the window, but the eye sparked in his hand and his attention was dragged away from the figure outside as he let out a yelp. He let the eyeball drop, only just catching it with his other hand before it hit the floor. Evidently there was some magic left in the eye, he would have to see about trying to repair it.

Making his way back to the counter he found the raven waiting alone, Bloodcrust had disappeared. "Hello, again," Harry began before holding out the glass eye for the raven's inspection, "I was just wondering how much is this?"

With a caw the raven reached out a claw and plucked the eyeball from his hand studying it for a few seconds. "Well it  _was_ a fine piece. Very magical in its time. I'll give it to you for a crown," he held it steady in his claw.

"Half a crown for it," Harry suggested.

Eventually Harry handed over a dozen, worn pieces of silver he had liberated from Richard the night before and, after shaking the raven's claw, he turned to leave.

“Come back any time!" The raven cawed as Harry turned to the door. With a nod of thanks he stepped back into the street. Behind him the bell jangled and the shop faded away. Unfortunately it took the rest of the passage back to the main street with it. The only way out lay through the small square. Ivy and vines ran up the pillars of the colonnade, young grapes hung amid wide, dark, leaves.

The stranger was leaning against a column; the golden moonlight striking off his bent head. There was no wand in his hand, Harry did not bother to draw his. Spells in such an enclosed space could easily rebound from the walls and kill them both. The stones and climbing tendrils formed an impassable wall without door or window, save for a small flight of golden steps in one corner. In the centre of the courtyard lay a small fountain with a piece of bronze in the shape of a winding flame. Water twisted over it, and spray danced upwards turning a burning silver in the light of the stars. The fountain stood a little raised above the cobbles and the two of them came face to face across it.

The man had soft, reddish-brown hair which tangled over his brow in an unwashed rat's nest. His face was long and his nose sliced down it in a long, sharp, line. His eyes were a deep, earthy, brown. He spoke in the clipped precise English, "Hello, Mr Potter."

Harry paused, he had half hoped the man would be a random thug out for a spot of quick cash. He sighed, "I'm sorry? Mr Who?"

The man scowled, "Do not pretend to be ignorant Mr Potter. I know who you are. My contacts are most thorough."

"Fine. So suppose I  _am_ this Potter bloke. What do you want to tell him?" They circled around the fountain, Harry carefully stepped onto only dry stones.

"We know why you are here Potter. We know why you've been sent. Your interference is not welcome. Leave now and you may be allowed to keep your face intact," he threw back his cloak to reveal a long, ivory handled, flick knife. He drew it and slowly teased the blade open.

"Should I choose to stay you'll use that?" Harry asked, pre-empting the man's next line. He cursed himself for failing to memorize any apparition points within the city. He glanced towards the passageway. It was too far, he'd be hit in the back with a spell before he made it.

"If I have to. I do deplore violence though. If you give me your solemn vow that you will not look into the … holidays our mutual friends have been taking, then yes I will let you go," he gave a crooked smile. It was not pleasant.

"I can't do that. I have to thank  _you_  for this chat though. It gives me some idea of what I’m dealing with."

The man smirked. "I don't think that is going to matter much soon." He surged forward around the fountain, the knife held downwards. Harry stood his ground.

The blade sliced down towards Harry's neck. Harry leaned out of the way before stepping backwards. The knife slashed the air where his throat had been moments before. The man grinned savagely and swiped the knife back up in an arc which came closer than Harry had expected. He deflected the blow with his arm. The knife scraped over his coat, unable to pierce the enchanted fabric.

Harry sidestepped cautiously. The man was fast, his thin, wiry build working to his advantage. However, he had no idea of how to fight effectively. Harry doubted that he'd ever even used a knife like this before.

The man flipped his grip on the knife, and advanced again, crouching low. Harry edged sideways until he was standing inches away from the edge of the open square, beside the colonnade.

"Is this really necessary? Why don't you simply walk away? You've given your message, go and report back like a good little lapdog to whoever you are serving," Harry suggested, spreading his arms wide, peaceably.

The man took the opportunity stabbing forwards. He held the dagger out like a spear. Harry sidestepped again, restricting his movements to practical workman like dodges. The man skidded to a halt and swung the blade towards Harry, but it was too late. His broadside was exposed and Harry's hand drove into his solar plexus leaving him to collapse to the ground. Harry gripped the man's wrists in a crushing grip, slowly forcing him to drop the blade.

The man tried to rise as his fingers were slowly prised open. Harry simply delivered a light blow to the back of his knee, sending his attacker crashing back down onto the cobbles. In one motion Harry grabbed the man's arm and smashed his elbow against the pillar. With the leverage from his grip on the man’s wrist he cracked the bone with the blow. The knife dropped. Harry brought his boot crushing down on his foe's left hand, grinding down on the bones. The howl of pain was replaced by an incoherent gurgle. Harry's face was expressionless as he kicked away the knife.

Switching his foot to the man's right hand Harry fished his holly wand from its sheath and cast the full body-bind curse. The man's limbs snapped together.

"I am not going to kill you. I don't like killing. Remember this though: I will find you and whoever sent you and I will find out what you are up to. If you don't stop then I  _will_  stop you. I'm going to give you a chance to tell me everything. Then you will leave. If I ever have  _any_ reason to regret letting you go you will die. Comprende?" Harry finished. He stepped backwards his wand still pointing at the man and released the body-bind on his attacker's head.

It was as the agonised grin slid over the man's face that Harry realised his mistake.

"Random. Iron. Left." The man winked out of sight with the blue flash of a portkey.

"Damn,” Harry spat. His hand ached where he had hit the man. He needed to get back in shape. He sat on the edge of the fountain as the adrenaline faded leaving him feeling weak and shaky. After a few minutes he stood and left the square, slowly climbing up the stairway.

An hour later Harry finally sauntered out from the maze of streets to climb the last stretch of open road to the gates of the citadel. He felt remarkably relaxed. Fighting per se had never given him the thrill Tom derived from it, but someone trying to kill him  _did_  make him feel gloriously alive.

The gates of the citadel were two awe inspiring slabs of beaten, untarnished, bronze; twelve inches thick; dwarf forged; strong enough to resist even the white hot fires of a dragon's maw, and set between thick pillars of unbreakable obsidian. They gleamed under the unearthly light of the setting moon. The coat of arms of the lady of the city lay upon them: a raven, wings spread above a crescent moon. Beneath the thirty foot high, Gothic arch the gates rested with solid determination. You do not mess with someone whose front door weighs more than most houses.

The flagstones were solid and dry underfoot as Harry strode towards the two guards at the gate. They were clad in simple robes. Wands were stashed at their belts on one side, and long, sweeping swords upon the other. There was a still an air of calm, deadly menace about them. They eyed Harry as he approached, and their hands rested nonchalantly by their wands.

"Hello," Harry called out as he came closer, smiling up at them. He ruffled a hand through his already wild mop of hair. "I was wondering if you could help me." He spoke in English, not risking the use of legilimancy on guards.

"Good afternoon," one of the guards replied, "The citadel is not open to the public today. If you are seeking directions we may be able to help."

Harry strolled closer, rubbing his neck with one hand. He looked out across the city, "Well, luckily for me I'm not quite one of the public. At least not in the usual sense. I'm here in a diplomatic capacity, though you might not believe it. My … my companions and I were separated, but I believe I am expected. My name is Harry Potter."

The guards, or at least the one who seemed to understand looked sceptical, "I do not know of any such person being expected. We were not informed. Where are your papers?"

Harry spread his hands wide as he walked closer. He stopped, close enough to almost shake hands with either of them, "I have no papers, and there is no proof save my word, my face and my wand. Still though check it.  _Don't_ make a mistake."

The guard frowned for a moment before gesturing to his companion to keep an eye on Harry. He withdrew a small, glass, flask from his robes. Inside burnt a blue flame shaped like a bluebell. He tapped the flask with a finger and spoke a series of muffled words. The flames danced and changed colour running with green before becoming turquoise. For a few moments they waited. Harry glanced up at the sheer walls, jutting gargoyles peeped out high above. The other guard fixed him with a cool stare. Then the visage of a man with a lined face appeared in the flames. He and the guards shared a few words. The flames returned to their original state and the man's face faded. The guard pocketed the flask and turned back to Harry.

"You will stay here. Wait. The steward will be down shortly."

A few minutes later a small man with nut brown skin, and receding, slate-grey hair walked  _through_  the gates. There was something of the look of a thrush about him in his white and brown robe. Behind him the gates wavered as sunlit mist before reforming into solid bronze once more.

He clasped his hands together, "Wonderful, wonderful. Splendid to see you here Mr Potter. I've been sent down to meet you by the Princess herself. Oh don't worry Baum, you can stop scowling. He was expected. You needn't accompany us." The guards watched Harry cautiously but stepped back out of the way.

The steward waved Harry forward and handed him a slim, bronze, token. "Place this against the gates and walk swiftly. You will come to no harm," with that he simply stepped backwards and the metal folded around him.

Harry shrugged to the guards, stepped forward and flicked the bronze disc into the air. Catching it he pressed the cool metal to the gate. The bronze dissolved around him as he stepped through and for a second the world was replaced by shimmering mist. Then he was out on the other side and released the breath he had not known he was holding.

"Do you need a moment? Some people find going through the gate a little disorientating," his guide remarked.

"No, I'm okay," Harry licked his lips before grimacing and wiping them. “A pleasure to meet you, though I'm afraid you have the advantage Herr ..."

"Doctor Gonzalo William Merkel."

"A doctorate? How unusual. I've never met a wizard with one," Harry remarked as the steward began to lead him through the entrance hall. The poor lighting revealed Romanesque pillars supporting a vaulted, shadowy ceiling a hundred feet above. It smelt of cold stone and faded incense. Their footsteps echoed as they passed down the handful of steps into the basin like depression which formed the majority of the hall's floor.

Doctor Merkel chuckled dryly, the sound running around the hall, "I see you hear it, yes? This hall is called the Hall of Voices by many. As for the doctorate, well I am no wizard, merely an unawakened." His voice sprang from the stones, reverberating around them as if speaking from a great distance.

They turned off into a side passage at the end of the hall, harsh, bare, stone giving way to delicate tapestries and wall hangings. Threads mixed together to reveal plunging ships on stormy seas; a peacock rose from the ocean, flames streaming behind it as it rose like a star into the night, and finally a ship on a wide, flat sea upon which the sun was gradually sinking whilst two figures, one in red, one in black played chess on the deserted deck.

"You know, you've got some creepy tapestries here," Harry observed as they passed another of a tall woman in white standing before two dark monoliths.

"We've had some kind of creepy lords."

"I guessed. At least it is a relief the lords were responsible. I'd be more disturbed if the castle were just creating these of its own accord."

"Well I can I promise that you have seen nothing yet. The way we're going … the things there are so old that the castle might well have grown them," said Doctor Merkel.

"Where are we going exactly? If it is to see the Princess I'd really appreciate the chance to freshen up first," said Harry, glancing up and down the passage.

"Oh no. Her Highness is much too busy to see you now. She will send word when the time comes. For now I shall simply show you to your apartments. They adjoin to those of your companions. Once there I would not try to wander away without help. The castle can be … confusing to the most experienced," Merkel said, pushing open another door.

Harry pursed his lips at the thought of being kept caged, "Wonderful. I might see about renting rooms. Should it not prove against her Highness' wishes."

"I'm sure you may bring it up with her when you meet," the steward's murmur held something of a note of mild reproval.

There was a lull in the conversation and the steward pushed through a section of wall which wobbled like jelly before sucking him through. Harry grimaced at the slurping noise which had accompanied the steward's disappearance and followed suit, pushing through the wall. On the other side he gulped and flattened himself close, against the wall. They were on a walkway, perhaps three feet across without railings. The wind whistled over his face, below lay the base of the cliff on which the citadel crouched.

"You could have warned me!" Harry yelped, if he had come out any faster at all … he let the thought drop away.

"Sorry?" Merkel called back. He was already several feet away at the base of a long stairway formed from huge stones poking out of the side of the castle wall like scaffolding. Harry opened his mouth to yell again and shut it. It was hardly going to help to complain.  _Note to self, be careful when going through doors._

He set off after the steward, hopping, almost sprinting up the old steps. Their surface had been worn smooth by rain, wind and feet. Beneath them a purple vista of heather covered hills panned away into a huge, dark, forest. He looked away, trotting up the steps. The landscape shifted in the corner of his eye, heather was replaced by golden fields of corn and wheat, and red poppies stood out like spots of blood among the sheaves. He looked up and his footsteps faltered as disoriented he stumbled in the middle of a step. The world tilted wildly, his foot began to slip on the smooth stone and the castle wall leaned away from him. Then his foot came down on the stair and he pulled himself onwards, the world righted itself.

"Are you quite alright?" Merkel asked.

Harry let out a carefully even breath, "Don't worry, I'm fine. Just slipped a little."

"Ah … well. Take care. It would not do to fall," the steward turned away and continued on up the steps to a landing before a locked doorway. He gave seven precisely spaced knocks on the door, it swung inwards smoothly.

Harry made his way up the steps and stepped under the arch. The door closed with a groan and they were left in darkness. Torches flickered into life, flames sprouted from sockets in the walls over which ran strange, sombre carvings: a man rode through tall trees, a boy clasped in his arms, as a tall, shadowy figure, with branching antlers sprouting from his head pursued them. Leaping flames swam over the images making them dance.

"I see what you meant about the other ones just being the start," Harry observed as his eyes trailed over the carvings. "You say they grew with the castle? They are beautiful."

The steward paused, and his mouth twisted in distaste, "Beautiful? I have always found them eerie. More inclined to chill the spine than enliven the heart. I'm afraid I was speaking with a touch more rhetoric than accuracy. I simply don't know who made it, or when. I believe it is a representation of an old story, a very old story. It is nothing particularly special though. Perhaps we might move on ..."

Harry followed him down the corridor, still glancing at the walls as the carvings gave way to others: three men waiting on a bridge, facing a cowled figure; a king lay on a battlefield, a shattered sword clasped in his hand as nine faceless figures gathering around him.

With a final backwards glance at the carvings Harry left the corridor behind. They came to the end of a hall with diamond paned windows which gazed down over the city. Though what part of the metropolis was displayed Harry could not tell through the old glass. The steward halted and with a flourish he tugged back a door, sliding it into the wall.

The room beyond was lavishly furnished with chairs, dressers, paintings and carpets. "Your rooms, Mr Potter. The door on the left leads to your bedroom, dressing room and bathroom. The door on the right leads to your companions' rooms. If you wish to eat or desire a drink simply leave a note on that table," he pointed to a small silver table with clawed feet, "and it will be provieded along with any other item you might desire. I need to be on my way now, I'm afraid. This trip has taken me away from my other duties. For the moment then farewell."

Harry who had been examining the room turned to thank him, but Merkel had already left the room. Harry walked over to the bay windows which were lying open, the scent of roses from the trailing tendrils on the wall beyond blew into the room. The windows were set in limestone frames, just wide enough to climb through. He leant through the gap, staring down at the yawning void beneath. His glasses slipped and fell away but his fingers flicked out, catching them.

"Oh,  _please_  don't jump," requested a voice languidly from behind him.

Harry turned around slowly, replacing his glasses. Tom was leaning against the connecting door between their rooms slowly trimming his nails. His hair was freshly washed and his cheeks were still rosy from shaving.

"Tom."

"I  _am_  sorry to disturb you. However, if the day should come for you to die then I would prefer that I should have had a hand in it."

"Fair enough. As long as you come along. I hear the road to Hell is a long one. I'd like some company on the way," Harry said, flexing his fingers as he turned back to survey the view. "Where's our friend?"

"Taking a call. Probably from Malfoy to see if we're dead yet," Tom advanced into the room, looking around. "It seems they've given us all identical rooms. Pity, I was rather hoping that mine would be larger than yours."

"Inferiority complex Tom?"

"Hardly, I just deserve more space."

Harry snorted. "You might be a touch paranoid about Richard you know," Harry suggested as he looked out at the dusky sky. The stars were slowly dimming into darkness, turning the violet air a deep, velvety, black. The lanterns which had begun to light the city below lend the streets the appearance of a lake reflecting the night sky.

"Harry, Harry, Harry. I  _know_  how these things work. Malfoy sent him to keep us in line and to keep him informed. If we are really, extra-specially lucky he's here to kill us too. To be perfectly frank I don't personally see a need for him any longer ..." Tom trailed off leaving the implicit suggestion hanging.

"Better the devil you know. I doubt that he's an assassin. If he weren't here, someone else would be, and that one might be worse. We'll be better able to keep a low profile this way. He probably is spying on us, but this way at least we can keep him in our sights," Harry argued.

"Perhaps, but he'll be able to keep us in his ..." Tom muttered unconvinced. "What took you so long to get here? Did you manage to forget that you were heading for the massive castle?”

"Not exactly. A few things distracted me along the way. Anyway, I guess I'll see you later," he reached into his pocket and tugged, letting a thin disk of metal slide out on to the windowsill. He waited just long enough for Tom's bemused "What?" before he dropped backwards out of the window still laughing.

Tom lunged towards him but he was too slow. Harry's laughter was still ringing in Tom's ears when the boy shot up past the window once more, swooping to and fro on the broom he had pulled from his jacket pocket as he fell.

At the window Tom smiled thinly. "Bastard," he muttered softly. He turned away, leaving the boy to his play. He could have joined him in the air, but the conversation was not worth the effort of flying.

Harry watched as Tom stalked back across the room and through the door to his own apartments. He shrugged and pushed the broom downwards as he spotted a night falcon diving earthward, racing towards a pigeon as the bird winged its way homewards for the night. He always hoped his animagus form would be a bird, but till he spent the time to find out flying on a broom was better than nothing.

The wind slashed across his cheeks as he accelerated downward. His glasses were pressed back against his face, digging into his skin. Above him the crimson light of the beacon he'd left behind to identify his room flashed dully. The falcon swooped, its talons smashed into the pigeon, breaking the spine in one swift motion. Harry swerved out of the way as the limp grey body was launched upwards in a slow spiral by the impact, blood spiralling out.

He turned the broom upwards, soaring into the sky towards the brooding outline of the castle. He shot up and away from the smells and sounds of the city. The last wafts of roasting pork teased him with the hint of a taste. The night was young; the sky was empty, and he had a lot of free time. He smiled.

_Deep in the Black Forest:_

The man tensed, his jaw clenched shut, rigid as steel as one of the acolytes slowly wrapped his shattered hand in bandages, soaked in bone restorative. He could feel the itching beginning to burn as the bones started to reknit. Grimacing he forced himself to sit up, waving the man who had been tending to him away. He would not give in to the pain. He would not give into the anger.

He had lost. He had been humiliated. By a  _half-blood_. That needed to be remedied. There was only one option. He would have to improve. He closed his eyes searching through his memories. There were a few rituals which might be advantageous. They were risky, but then when was anything worthwhile safe? Rituals were easy, they came naturally. He'd simply never seen the need for these ones before. He smiled before wincing. Moving was painful. Pain though was for the weak.

"Hortencia, bring me  _The Matrix_  of Master Absolem, and a reading stand. Once you've done that look up any rituals to enhance strength or toughness which require human sacrifice. We can afford that at the moment," he restrained the whimper of pain until the petite, blonde, woman who had been waiting upon him had left the room.

His orders had been clear and precise, and while he had muffed up their execution he suspected that his encounter with Potter would serve the same purpose anyway. Now the question was how long did they have before he found them? He doubted that Potter would manage it long before the Moon was in the right position. If he seemed too slow there would be ways to lead him down the right path.

A ripple of pain ran through him and his face contorted. Killing Potter had become personal. He hoped to God, the Devil and everything in between that The Other One, as his followers called the unknown hunter, didn't get him first.

Hortencia returned bearing a large book, bound in white leather. He shut the pain out of his mind and concentrated. The book flipped open and the pages moved. The page he sought lay open. The words stood out in a clear, precise, bold hand. It made for surprisingly easy reading by the standards of magical tomes.

"Thank you, Hortencia. Please go and feed our pets. We will send them out hunting tomorrow."

The woman nodded, her fair hair falling over her face in dirty knots as she did so. A beautiful woman, he mused, if only she had better personal hygiene.

Settling back he began to read.


	8. Kings and Queens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meetings, greetings and murder.

**Kings and Queens**

Harry tossed his wand down with a sigh of frustration. The glass eye was stubbornly refusing to let his magic take hold. He crossed another combination of spells off the ever increasing list and flipped through a couple of pages in a thin, calfskin-bound. It had been a week since he had first begun his attempts to mend it and as yet the eye had shown no positive response.

"No luck?" Richard asked from the corner he had taken to occupying.

Harry shook his head, frowning at the eye. "Do you want a go, Thorbecombe?"

"Call me Richard, please. As for having a go, no chance. The last time I attempted to mend something like that it, well … blew up. Left a metre deep crater in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement refectory too," Richard explained grimacing at the memory. "My pay was docked for a month. I think they put in new rules about what were regarded as acceptable hobbies."

"Ouch." Harry winced in sympathy. "Do you want a drink or something? I'm giving up for the moment. Any idea when our _dear_ Tom will be back?"

"I expect that his _Lordship_ ,' Richard stressed the word as if hoping it might persuade Harry to show Tom the respect he believed appropriate, 'will be back soon. The Ambassador is probably a very busy man. I would not mind a glass of wine."

"Thanks. I do wish you wouldn't call him that though. It just plays up to his sense of melodrama," Harry said, as he scribbled a note for a black coffee, the ink blotting as he paused momentarily. "Any preference on the wine?"

Richard considered. "His sense of melodrama? You're one to talk. The pair of you seem to take some perverse pleasure in making your lives as close to fiction as you can. I'll have a glass of Egri Bikavér, the proper stuff if they have any. Thank you."

Harry finished the note, shrugged and folded it into a paper aeroplane before flinging it towards the silver platter. It skittered over the engraved surface only to vanish in a puff of white smoke. "You know, sometimes I wonder what would happen if I stepped onto that."

"I hate to think. Probably something extremely painful."

Harry eyed it speculatively, "We could get Tom to try it out."

"I doubt it."

Harry rolled his shoulders relaxing back into his chair. A few seconds later a solid, green mug filled with almost jet-black coffee materialised on a table beside him.

"More coffee? You know it wouldn't hurt you to relax. Have a beer, a glass of wine, _something._ When did you even last sleep?" Richard asked as he took a sip from his own glass.

"I don't sleep much. As for drinking … I'll drink when I'm confident that I'm safe; when I'm trying to flatter a barman, or when I want to literally drown my sorrows," Harry replied. His lips twisted in a ghost of a smile. "None of those are currently the case."

He plucked a tea spoon from one of his own pockets and stirred the coffee. A small dab of white enamel on the handle glowed for a second, revealing that there were no poisons or potions either in it or on the cup itself. Harry took the spoon out and after cleaning it slipped it back into his pocket.

"Sometimes," Tom began from the doorway as the door itself clicked to behind him, "I think you must be incredibly brave, yet at other times I believe that nature never made a greater fool. Then I remember that you _are_ a Gryffindor, and I realise that I was being foolish, for why cannot both be true?"

"Lovely to see you too," said Harry, not bothering to look up his book. "What pray, is your comment apropos of?"

"Nothing really. Although the day I drink without checking for poisons will be the day I lose what little of my sanity this world has left me with," Tom said as he made his way across the room and folded himself into a dark red, high backed, armchair. He plucked a thin book from the black alder bookcase.

Harry rolled his eyes, deciding not to correct him, " _Please_ , you really think that the house elves are trying to poison us? I'll admit that the curry the other night was a little dodgy, but really …"

Richard snorted. Tom, though, remained serious, pursing his mouth, "That does not reassure me in the slightest. I know from personal experience how easy it is to trick a house elf. In any case we both know how untrustworthy they are."

"I hardly think," Harry said, "that a house elf who proves _you_ fail to think of everything, merely by following the orders it was given, shows them to be untrustworthy as a species. If anything it shows quite the reverse."

Tom disdained to answer. He set the book down and began to slowly examine and clean his fingernails. Harry sighed before deciding to let it drop. He sat back and took a sip from his mug of coffee. He ran a hand across his face. Richard was right he needed to sleep.

Richard coughed politely addressing Tom, "What news from our ambassador then?"

Tom scowled. "Jeremiah Snodgrass is incompetent; an idiot, and a drunkard. Not to mention that if he was a finger's width wider he'd get stuck in the castle gates."

"So you liked him then?" Harry asked innocently. He sank back into the chair, closing his eyes. It was warm and comfortable. The coffee was having little effect and he could almost hear the cogs turning in his own mind.

Tom ignored him. "I cannot think of a moment when I was there when he did not have a glass of some wine or other in his hand. He even almost drank mine when I put it down for a moment! However," he admitted grudgingly, "despite the fact that he was a boor of the worst sort the meeting was productive."

Harry perked up slightly, opening his eyes for long enough to set the mug down on the arm of his chair. "So? What did he say? Have we been bumped up the queue to see her or anything?"

Tom frowned, choosing to address Richard, "He says that your auror friends are housed at the embassy for the moment. It is why you have been unable to communicate with them. Apparently the wards around it prevent such things in order to hinder the activities of spies. He has managed to arrange for Harry and me to meet with her highness the day after tomorrow. Apparently we are to meet her individually, which is part of the cause for the delay. There was a price though …"

"Really?" Richard asked, "Shouldn't he be doing it as a matter of course? The Minister won't be happy."

"He seemed to have very little in the way of national feeling. He even dared to laugh in my face when I suggested that it was his duty as an Englishman," Tom explained, his fingers twitching on the arm of his chair. "If I didn't know better I would say that he has gone _native_. Anyway it seems we are to attend a ball on Wednesday. I think he hopes that the presence of other diplomats from Britain, even if our position is only nominal, will take the pressure off him."

"He'll have more pressure to deal with than a drinks do when the Minister hears about this," Richard muttered darkly.

"Oh I don't know, I can almost understand," Tom started his voice oozing false sympathy, "much more pressure on a man built like that and he'd pop."

"It sounds like a lot of grandstanding to me. I can't see that it's even really necessary for us to meet her. If it's just to hold up appearances we could tell everyone it happened. Still a ball?" Harry scowled in distaste. "I don't dance, I don't socialize and I don't _do_ balls."

"A glittering society event? An occasion of elegance, style and good breeding? Not to mention intellectual conversation? No I don't imagine you do," Tom remarked sardonically.

Harry almost smiled. "The way you describe it makes it sound a bit like a dog show. The conversation is probably near the same level … just a bit less fun."

A crow circling outside the windows cawed loudly and landed outside upon the ledge. It peered in through the glass. Harry shifted uncomfortably. It felt as if the bird's eyes were boring into the back of his neck. He stood up and striding over to the window threw it open shooing the bird away in a flutter of feathers. He looked after it as it winged away.

"I hate those bloody birds. They always make me start looking over my shoulder," Harry muttered to himself. Behind him Tom and Richard continued to discuss the ball, although Harry was fairly certain he could hear Tom drumming his fingers.

Harry sighed. It was no use. He could feel his eyelids drooping, even as he stood by the window with the cool evening air wafting against his cheeks. He turned back towards the others cutting into the conversation. "What about the information on the victims? When are we to have access to the reports? I need to know who the victims were, and where they disappeared, not to mention …"

"Yes, yes, _I know_ ," Tom interrupted him, holding up a hand for silence. "Snodgrass can't do a thing on that front. It _is_ their business after all, from the sound of it our part is to be strictly unofficial. He thought we'd probably get to see them after the meeting with the Princess. Probably so that she can make up her mind as to what we are to be permitted to see."

"Just one thing though. She's delayed this for a reason," Richard said warningly, "it's possible she just doesn't want British interference; I'd say it's more likely that she's hoping that this way she'll be able to tease information out of you."

"My, my, I _am_ surprised," Tom answered dismissively, "that _is_ news."

Richard shrugged, "No, maybe it isn't. I need hardly point out that she almost certainly has nothing to bargain with for that information. On the other hand the Minister has more than a few strings he could pull."

"We're out of France _or_ England so do _not_ try and pull that one on me again," Tom warned, his voice soft and deadly.

"No, of course not. Mr Potter might do well to remember that the Minister knows where he lived. The Minister knows that every year the school children go on a coach trip to the coast. The Minister knows how icy those mountain roads can be.", Richard paused, "And the Minister would also like to point out to you, my lord, that while the Princess may support some pureblood ideals what we will be investigating mainly centres on the disappearance of muggleborns and half-bloods. You would do well to consider your priorities."

Harry nodded slowly. "Don't worry. I'll remember. Well done for getting anything out of him, Tom. I suppose I can survive a ball. It's not exactly going to be the death of me. Right now though I'm going to bed, before I fall out of the window or something. The first of you to try and get into my rooms can try learning to fly."

"But I can fly," Richard pointed out mildly, perhaps hoping to dispel the chill which had settled over the room as he gave the Minister's warning.

Harry turned to look at him as he opened the door. "You can try learning to fly without a broom."

Tom smiled.

* * *

A myriad of colours spiralled around him and resolved themselves. Harry was lying in the middle of a half ruined cottage, soft moss beneath his back. Dark ivy curled over grey stones. Tall grasses waved, touched by the wind as it blew by. Nearby a Holm-oak sprouted over a craggy cliff from which leapt a bubbling spring. Water coursed over the rounded rocks at its mouth. Time passed.

Harry moved his hand. It blurred strangely as if seen in slow motion around it golden light. He was relatively sure that he was dreaming. He believed that normally the sky existed, instead … the sky was not. There was nothing above. A humming broke through his thoughts. He sat up. Ginny was sitting across from him, cross legged, leaning back against a tumbled down wall. Her red hair glowed like. She was toying with a piece of shattered glass, scraping it against random rocks. The sight of her, surprisingly, failed to be heart stopping.

"Ah. There I was hoping this might be real," he said. He stood up and stretched before offering her a hand. She ignored it.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," she replied simply, looking up at him, caramel eyes sparkling, "does it matter so very much?"

Harry shrugged, "I suppose not. I'd just prefer it to be real. I'd prefer you to be real."

"Not going to be happening, laddie. Still, it's nice to have a talk isn't it? I don't often get this much freedom," she said, plucking a multicoloured flower from the air and taking a deep breath.

"Well at least you're the one getting the freedom. I hate the idea of Luna being in charge of my imagination," he shuddered at the thought, "I doubt I'd ever get the nargles out."

Ginny stood up. "Shall we walk?" she asked, "I could do with stretching my legs. It has been too long." Her clothes shifted becoming heavy winter gear, a large, black, felt coat flowed into existence. The landscape rippled around them. They were walking down a street, arm in arm. Fog, dyed yellow and orange by the street lamps hung heavy in the air. It reduced the passing figures to blacked silhouettes wrapped in heavy coats.

"Brr … I can't remember feeling cold in dreams normally," Harry complained, rubbing his arms as they meandered onwards, tramping over the mist-slicked cobbles.

"Well then I suppose you aren't," Ginny said simply. She wrapped her arm around his waist to pull him closer. He flinched at the contact. "Anything the matter?" She asked innocently.

"You're … well … dead," he said, struggling to explain what he meant.

She stopped walking, spun to face him. "Yes," she answered casually, "I know." She paused her eyes widening in horror, "Oh I'm _so_ , _so_ sorry. It must be so distressing for you, should I look dead? Would it be easier?" The mist wrapped itself around and then fled in tattered pieces, spinning in a non-existent wind. Below them street lamps reflected off the vast bulk of a wide, black river.

"No, no, no," he answered desperately, " _please_ stay as you are. Please. I haven't seen you in too long."

"Thank you," she said, beaming. She span back round, the heel of her shoe squeaking on the cobbles before she set off walking again. "I've been busy, things to do, people to see."

"You're imaginary, and dead," he said blandly.

"There's no need to be rude about it," she replied, sniffing dramatically.

They turned a corner out of the cloying strands of yellow fog and under a brick arch. Damp growths clung to the walls, as water slowly dripped downwards. For a moment the fog parted as above great wings beat the air and Harry caught sight of the street name into the alley: _Mad Alice Lane_.

"Why do I feel this says nothing good about my mental state?" Harry muttered. Ginny chortled, nudging him in the ribs in recompense for breaking her composure.

"Because it doesn't? You seem to be happier than usual at the moment though. Things going well at the shop?" She asked brightly. The street narrowed. Literally. It became thinner around them, the walls crept closer, swallowing up the cobbles.

"Um … well. Life has been more interesting … I'm not exactly at the shop any more. An opportunity came up," he said, trying to avoid the topic. He closed his eyes for a second, unable to believe that he was lying to a figment of his imagination. When he opened them they were walking through a wall of flowing water filled with dahlias and pansies. They strode forwards, but the movement was upwards, ever upwards. Ginny plucked a pansy from the water as they walked and tucked the yellow-red flower behind her ear.

"How do I look?" she asked.

He turned to look at her properly for the first time. The water was flowing around her dragging her hair upwards, tugging at the ragged hem of her jeans. In the water her hair was darker. Her skin was almost translucent and tinted with a strange unearthly hue. He floated staring at her, breathless. Time seemed to stretch out the seconds for an eternity. Caramel eyes blinked.

"Beautiful," he murmured, unable to say more. He cupped her chin in his hands, "I'm sorry Ginny, I'm so, so sorry."

"Hush now. It doesn't matter. I forgive you," she soothed, pulling him forward so that his head was buried against her neck. His lips brushed her collar bone. The water swirled and they were lying on a moonless sky, diamonds sparkled at the edge of sight. He curled against her on the midnight air, desperate for the comfort of her form while the dream lasted.

"I'm going to help Ron and Hermione's children. I'm going to make up for what I did," he promised. His voice sounding small and childish as he clung to her. Her hands brushed his cheeks and his forehead. His eyes closed.

"Take care Harry, be strong. We will be with you, always."

* * *

The doors to the hall swung open. Harry was waved through by a black robed guard. The man's expression suggested that this might be the most interesting activity the guard expected to take part in all day. Harry tossed him a sympathetic grimace.

Harry _had_ intended to stride through the doors. He had intended to create a striking impression, but unfortunately the sight which met his eyes rather robbed him of his stride. The first thing which Harry noticed about the Lord's Hall was that it looked nothing like he had imagined it might. It also looked nothing like it had when he had last seen it, eighty years before. It looked like a drawing room from a country cottage rather than a palace.

The ceiling did not shimmer with a myriad of crystals or gleam with gilt gold; it was painted white, pleasantly complimenting the soft blue of the walls. The walls were dotted with pictures, some antiques, other's children's sketches.

There was only one person in the room: a middle aged lady with dark hair cut to her shoulders and touched with grey. Her cheeks were plump, and beginning to sag slightly, almost suggesting some relation to a bulldog. She was not particularly tall and the brown jumper she wore hung a touch too loose upon her. She looked as if she had just decided to chuck on the first pieces of clothing she could find. She was seated in a comfy, squidgy looking chair. Yet despite her clothes and setting she held herself with regal poise.

Harry paused three steps into the room and gave a stiff bow. She finished touching the needle to a gramophone record and sat back surveying him.

"Good morning, Mr Potter," she said, only the faintest hint of an accent tingeing her words.

"Good morning, your Highness," Harry replied fixing his eyes on a point just above her left ear.

The record whirred and crackled before beginning to play as she waved him towards an armchair with a cushion embroidered with a polar bear. "Please sit Mr Potter. Formality has never been of interest to me. Your reputation precedes you, I have long wished to meet you."

"Really? I had hoped that I had dropped out of the public eye. I had certainly gained that impression," he answered guardedly, sitting gingerly in the chair.

"Come now Mr Potter, it isn't going to swallow you," she remarked with a small, neat, smile. "Now would you care for tea?" She asked, her hand hovering over a dainty silver bell.

"No thank you, Ma'am," he answered, politely, trying to hide his paranoia.

"As you wish. Mr Potter, a reputation such as yours never dies. In any case when I am informed that Draco Malfoy is seeking to promote friendly relations by sending Harry Potter … how can I fail to pay attention? To those of us with an interest in you your actions speak books," she rang the silver bell. As the crystalline peal died away a small house elf dressed in a carefully wrapped tea-towel appeared with a crack. "Do fetch me a cup of tea, Kuba, two sugars and just a thimbleful of milk." The elf gave a small curtsy and vanished with another crack.

"Volumes, Ma'am. My actions speak volumes, not books," he corrected. He paused, "I am sorry."

She waved a hand dismissing his apology, "Do not worry. I am happy to learn. Nevertheless, I have heard many things," she picked up a neatly rolled scroll from beside her chair, "the confidant of Albus Dumbledore and Hermione Granger-Weasley; friend to phoenixes and slayer of basilisks, dragons and daemons."

"It was only a _small_ daemon," Harry interjected.

She continued, ignoring the interruption, "The man who forced Lord Voldemort into a stalemate; the man who put an end to the greatest work of necromancy in the twenty first century; who prevented the release of Grindelwald – for which I believe the Mark of the Hexanmeister awarded by the princes of Germany is still waiting for you; the man who set up a small shop in Wales and almost entirely vanished from our world …"

"Most of this is hearsay, Ma'am. I wouldn't trust everything you hear," Harry finished with a short nod, attempting to indicate that the subject was closed.

"A fair point. Humour me though, I heard that you were the one who burnt Constantinople. Is _that_ true?" She asked, leaning forward in her chair. A cup of milky tea sitting upon a saucer appeared with a quiet pop beside her. It hovered in the air until she took it.

Harry licked his lips, continuing to stare at the wall to her left, "I used to hear from my fri… customers that I make excellent sandwiches. So strange. I really can't say that I put much faith in things I hear."

She looked at him for a moment, and then, sitting back she laughed. "Keep your secrets then. It matters not. Was it not lucky though? That the rising Dark Lord Vrykolakas should suddenly meet such an unfortunate end? Especially when rumours say he had arrived at terms with a one-time British potentate? I have heard that two men were seen duelling each other in the streets, flame and shadow around them…"

Harry's jaw was clenched shut. "Ma'am, I have to come to _help_ you, not to harm. I do not kill if there is any other option. I did not come to serve Malfoy, but to save lives. If you will not help me then give me leave to do the work in any case,' he said through tightly clenched lips.

She looked at him intently. Her eyes flickered over his features. "That is the point. You are _not_ here to serve Malfoy, and you are not here to serve me. _If_ you are here to save lives I think I can offer you an opportunity … I suspect that although your relations with Mr Malfoy are strained, it was he who pulled you from exile. For what reason I do not know. I would like to propose a bargain: if you answer my questions I will answer yours. A question for a question."

Harry gave a non-committal nod. "First, may I make a few deductions of my own?" He asked continuing before she could reply, "you were playing Schubert when I came in. A pureblood sympathiser would not listen to a muggle composer. You reinforced the message with your clothing which, while outdated is muggle in its origins, if I am any judge. And you tried to test me to make sure that I truly intended to help you when I entered the city, and just now ..."

She had been nodded, but she hesitated at his latest statement, "I did not test you when you entered the city. I tested your companions. What do you mean?"

Harry paused, if she did not know about his assailant then it might be useful to keep the information in reserve. "I'll tell you in a little. The question is what am I going to get out of this? I can still make inquiries. I suspect that you don't want to reject any help in finding out what is happening to your people."

She considered the question, "You were _almost_ correct. I intend a message. That you noticed bolsters my hopes. In truth then: my first concern is the welfare of my people. _All_ my people. I suspect that you share my dislike for blood politics. Give me what information you can. I will use it to guard them. I will also answer any questions you may have, providing they are relevant and not _too_ sensitive."

"How can I trust you? What vow will you make to assure me of your good intentions?" Harry asked warily.

"A charm of brotherhood would serve. We shall _know_ the truth of our words, though we shall not be bound too closely. You are wise, these are dangerous times," she drew her wand delicately.

Harry's lips twisted grimly. "I personally wouldn't trust me either. I am not known for keeping my promises."

"Then we shall trust the magic. This way at least you will have the comfort of knowing that your secrets are safe with me. Though I must request that I should be able to give out the information if I fear the consequences should it remain private," she replied, still holding her wand out.

"How about we let it rest. If you feel more strongly that the information ought to be revealed than I do that it should not then you'll still be able to tell others. I do think that it might be wise to restrain the bond to this conversation alone. I would prefer not to bind my will too closely ..."

She paused before nodding, "It is fair. I would not want my thoughts to be divulged. To let such bonds run on only heightens the risk."

"May I?" he asked, gesturing to his sheathed wand.

"By all means."

Drawing his wand he held it lightly between middle finger and thumb. He looked at her, catching her eyes for the first time and spoke, "Will you say the incantation or should I?"

"I shall. The wards in this room would react if you cast magic. Feed the magic in when appropriate though ..." she ordered mildly.

"Of course, Ma'am."

" _Sit animis dignum et vinculum composuerunt ut sit sicut consanguineis_." A slow stream of Madonna blue light curled out of her wand wrapping itself around Harry's and his hand up to the wrist. As it touched Harry's wand a tongue of green fire spiralled from the tip, intertwining with the Princess's magic. The cords of light spun hair thin threads over the air, enmeshing first their hands and then their forearms in a net of power. " _Satis_!" The Princess commanded, completing the spell.

The magic faded from sight. Harry felt it run into his skin, a trickle of warmth spreading from his fingertips. It left a pleasant almost euphoric buzz. A single thread of light, half emerald, half sapphire still ran between them. He settled back into the armchair, twirling his wand, "So then would you like to ask the first question or shall I?"

"I will. Why are you here? What did Malfoy do to get you out into the open after so long? And why did he choose you? The last is something I simply haven't been able to understand," she asked, laying her wand on the arm of the chair, inches from her hand.

"Three questions all at once? Isn't that a touch greedy?" Harry asked as he settled into the feeling of the charm sensing her genuine interest in the questions. _Not simply playing around then_ , he noted _._ He smiled, deciding to test her, "I'm here because I've been sent. Malfoy knew where I was and he laid a bait I couldn't resist. The reasons _he_ gave for choosing me boil down to the fact that I'm capable and he doesn't need me if this goes belly-up. My turn ..."

She frowned, setting down her tea cup on the floor beside her, "I think not. You have not told me the truth, at least not all of it. What is the point of this if you will speak in half-truths? I want to know why _you_ have come. You could have broken free of Malfoy if you wanted to, if the legends are true. What bait?"

Harry nodded slightly, "True, true. Very well then. _I_ have come because once upon a time I had some very close friends who I failed. Utterly failed. This way I have a chance to do a little good. I don't want a war, this seems the best way to help people like you talk instead of fight. Oh and this seems the best way to work out what's really going on."

She frowned, "Why did he send you though? He could have found two people he trusted."

Harry shrugged, "I don't know. Perhaps that's the point. He can trust us to behave as none of his own men would? Maybe he expects us to kill one another."

After a pause which pushed the boundaries of the uncomfortable she decided not to try and press him further. "Thank you. Your turn."

"Why do you think Malfoy is doing this? Surely he wants peace. Can he afford another war," Harry asked.

"I can't be sure, but everything suggests he has the forces. There is a small army gathering in Calais, led by teams of aurors. He has been applying pressure to the French. My sources suggest he is trying to force them to attack, and he is succeeding.

"Naturally he would prefer to fight France alone. Therefore he is working to sway the High Council. Yet I don't know why he has become so involved, it does not match his style. Do you have any ideas?"

Harry shifted sheepishly. He was embarrassed by the frank candour the charm revealed, "I really don't know. He's up to something. Maybe he's trying to leave you indebted to him. If Riddle and I succeed then and you choose to intervene against him then people will see you as a betrayer, if you're right. If we fail then he _tried_ to help you. We aren't famed for our tracking or detective abilities.

"Riddle," he hesitated, choosing his words carefully, "is more suited to a career as a one man army or an assassin than as a detective."

She sighed and rested her head against her hand. "I have considered those possibilities. My immediate thought was that he was simply sending you here in order to put all his enemies on one side of the game board, but ..."

"Something doesn't fit. When I got here a man attacked me. He led me to believe that the attacks have a purpose. Someone is orchestrating this," Harry said.

"Do you think it is Malfoy?"

"I don't know. It could be Riddle up to his old tricks. I honestly have no idea. Malfoy is the obvious choice, but does that change that I'm here to try and stop people disappearing?"

"It may change how it must be done ..." she said. Silvery light broke through cloud cover, it danced over the saucer on the floor.

"For you. Not for me. Wars aren't my concern any more. I've made too many mistakes" Harry said, glancing down at his hands. He heard her give a small gasp as she was struck by the wave of guilt roiling through the charm.

It was several moments before she at last caught her breath enough to speak, "I agree. You are not a politician. You are a spy or a soldier. Nonetheless you may be a friend. Is there anything I can do for you?"

Harry grinned, "That _is_ nice to hear. I wouldn't trust _Malfoy_ if I had him drugged up and under veritaserum. You on the other hand … that you were willing to offer a brotherhood charm does you credit. How about we end this spell; you help me do what I'm here to do and give me the information you have on the attacks? I'm assuming you have reports on them."

"We do. I'll have them delivered to your rooms," she said, standing up. With a wave of her hand the thread of magic between them snapped cleanly apart, curling backwards into their palms.

* * *

Lord Voldemort stalked up and down the hall between his rooms and the communal parlour. Occasionally he would wander into the parlour and stand behind the boy as he read the reports for the umpteenth time. Energy itched just below Voldemort's skin, there was a desperate _need_ to do something.

"Hurry up Potter!" Voldemort ordered, his patience finally snapping. He tapped one, immaculately polished, pointed, black shoe on the Persian carpet. He was dressed in sleek, black robes whose elegant simplicity accentuated the pale, gaunt austerity of his face.

"Just a minute," the boy mumbled, circling yet another detail in one of the tables he'd drawn up. He fumbled over the desk yelping as he poked himself with a pin before he punched it into a map of the princedom. The blue head of the pin glinted dully among a swarm of its companions before it was joined by a red pin. To Voldemort's eye if the boy stuck many more pins in the map the boy would be unable to see the parchment. He pondered suggesting that enlarging the map would be a good idea. After a moment's thought he decided that it would be more amusing to wait and see how long it took before the boy finally realised that he could, if he ever did.

"Come _on_ ," Voldemort insisted, "the map will still be there when you get back." He rolled his eyes with impatience.

"I'm getting somewhere …"

"Yes: to the end of my patience," Voldemort snapped. His tongue flickered out, whetting his lips before he spoke with cold determination, "It. Can. Wait." Harry ignored him.

Voldemort sighed, what he wouldn't give for someone to show a little fear one of these days. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, hissing quietly.

"There!" Harry smiled triumphantly as he tapped the map. "What do you see?"

"A piece of paper," Voldemort replied blandly. He cut Harry off before he could speak, "I will listen to you later, provided you just hurry up now. If you don't I'll take you bound and gagged to the ball."

The boy smiled with saccharine sweetness, "Now, would that be enough to make you sacrifice your existence. Perhaps I should test your resolve …"

"Fine. I'll maim you to a point of insensibility and have the auror carry you down," Voldemort hissed. His foot was tapping again, faster than before.

"Okay, okay," the boy protested as if he had done nothing. Voldemort winced at the word: it was so … inelegant. The boy tossed the scrolls together and sealed the lid of his bottle of ink before drying the quill and laying it neatly on the table.

"Your _friend_ the auror will be waiting for us down there. Apparently he had to see to his little lackeys," Voldemort sneered as they started down the spiral staircase which had been provided for them for the occasion.

"Ah," the boy replied, hardly seeming to notice the words. "Tom, can I ask you something?"

"Well yes, you _can_. You have a tongue in your head. If you're asking whether you _may_ ask me something, then the answer is no." It was of course no use, Voldemort reflected, even responding to the boy at all encouraged him. Though on the other hand he just carried on regardless if you did not respond. If Voldemort was to be stuck between the Devil and the deep blue sea he felt that he ought to at least know where the sea was.

"Tom, do you feel … alive? I know it sounds a strange question, but just try and answer it," Harry started, his tone unusually mild. "You see I _remember_ seeing Hogwarts rising over the Black Lake for the first time, I remember the feeling of coming home. I remember what it was to have friends, almost to have family …"

"Do you really think that I am the best person to talk to about this?" Voldemort asked incredulously. "I killed your family; I killed many of your friends, or ordered their deaths; your bargain with _me_ drove your last hopes for companionship away forever."

"Yes, and I killed your faithful followers; I burnt your hopes, and destroyed your horcruxes. My friends destroyed one of your pet snakes, and I slew the other. If I didn't ask _you_ there would be no-one to ask," Harry said as they continued down the long staircase. The walls around them were no longer covered in tapestries or even plaster, they were rough cut, old, dark stone.

"You don't think we've gone too far do you?" Voldemort asked while considering the question. Strangely, although the question seemed to call upon elements of his being which he had ruthlessly suppressed it struck a chord.

"I think we went too far down this road long, long ago. The prophecy Tom, maybe we got it wrong," Harry replied, misinterpreting his companion's meaning. The steps were deep and clear cut, no sign of ancient feet marked them, they might as well have been made yesterday.

"No, I meant for the ball. You did not happen to see a door along the way?" Voldemort asked, then Harry's answer registered with him. "What do you mean 'we got it wrong'?"

"We assumed it meant being _alive_ and since it was palpably obvious we were both alive simultaneously that Dumbledore had forged it. A gambit to end the war. Now though … I'm not so sure. What if living is not defined by whether you _live_ life. Take joy in it," Harry suggested, "I grant you there are moments when I can feel the joy of it, but those are _moments_. They become less common with the years."

Voldemort stopped walking and raised an eyebrow, "Are you trying to tell me that you're depressed? Because I can assure you that I am _not_ the right person to talk to about that."

Harry shook his head, "No, not at all. I was happy with my existence as a shopkeeper. That was all it was though, I was _existing_. A character. My dreams, my hopes … they were gone."

Voldemort considered. "I understand what you mean. The world is shallower than it was. Nothing holds my attention, nothing can. Once I dreamed to be king, and that grew pale. Then I became a scholar, but even the power of knowledge wanes in its beauty now. The power, the desire, and the fury of the struggle to survive … they are not as they once were for me."

Harry nodded, his face contorted in what Voldemort thought could have been deep thought. Then again with that boy it was just as likely to be constipation. He gestured back up the stairs they began the long climb back up, only to find a sheer, rock wall of granite before them.

"I see," Voldemort said, with quiet patience. "I suppose we go down then."

So down they went, deeper and deeper into the bedrock of the citadel. Harry seemed unusually subdued. Voldemort's mind ran in circles. _We do not live, although we are alive. Who are we? It sounds like a riddle. What is to be done then? I cannot kill him. It might yet be the bicentennial blues. I suppose I must have a mid-life crisis at some point. What am I now though? A watchman in the night for the land I used to own, and an unwilling one at that._

The sound of music broke through his thoughts, a choir of high, pure voices. The sound soared and sighed through the passage. A rich, warm, red light filtered up the stairs mingled with laughter and conversation. The feast had already begun.

"It appears that we are walking into the mouth of hell judging by the lighting," Voldemort remarked.

"As long as the food is good then I don't really care," Harry replied, he face relaxing. "You must introduce me to Snodgrass. I owe him my thanks."

"I am sure that will be no problem," Voldemort said, his mind already half on the possibilities of such a gathering. The information he could gather and the connections he could make … They stepped down into the hall and the conversation began to die away.

The hall was vast. A huge cavernous space. It was carved from the rock upon which the citadel stood, bolstered by beams of enchanted oak. Stalactites, shaped so that they might hold rows upon rows of candles dangled from the ceiling above. Twelve, tall, black trees covered in white candles stood around the edge of the cavern, wax pattered on stone. Every now and then a candle burnt out and in a flash was replaced by a new, shining candle. In the centre of the cavern stood a dais and upon it a table shaped as an ouroboros. Around the inside of the table were seven chairs, one taller than the others for the Princess herself.

At first Voldemort had half hoped that it had been his entrance which had caused the hush. However, after a moment's pause he caught sight of a procession entering the hall from the opposite end. The Princess, veiled in silver led the way. He slipped into an empty seat, followed moments later by Harry.

Seven women dressed in white slowly made their way towards the central dais. Behind the Princess followed two men, each carrying a tall, burning candle. After them came two with long staffs wrapped with silver filigree. The final pair carried nothing but drawn wands carried before and clasped in two hands. They moved with slow grace until at last they reached the table where the Princess simply brushed her hand against the scaled wood. With slither of scales it slid apart and the seven women walked into the centre before taking their seats.

Voldemort's musings on the nature of the ceremony were cut short when the Princess stood and stated, firmly and clearly, "Let the feast begin."

It was more than two hours before the last course was finished and as the tables were cleared the Princess stood once more. The Hungarian diplomat to Voldemort's right who had stalwartly tried to engage him in conversation throughout the meal finally stopped talking. Voldemort sighed in relief. The concept of making alliances was all well and good, but his desire to do so was limited when it would largely benefit Malfoy. Indeed, he had ended up behaving as obnoxiously as possible on the part of Britain in an act of petty revenge.

"Thank you all for your presence here tonight," the Princess began softly. "I will not keep you long. This event is for all of us. Let us mingle and enjoy the sweet gift of company. Let the ball commence."

The tables blurred and then vanished from view. Around the hall those who were not too full to move began to stand and mingle. From somewhere there came the sound of an orchestra tuning. Voldemort stood worked his way through the building throng towards Harry.

"Follow me, if you still wish to pay your respects to Mr Snodgrass. I dare say he will not be sober enough to talk before long," he said curtly before sweeping away into the crowd towards the red faced man who was already hovering next to the area from which the trays of drinks carried by various, surprisingly human, waiters emerged. Then again Voldemort supposed some people found it necessary to employ squibs, there had to be something for them to do.

Richard Thorbecombe was making the rounds, chatting, smiling and doing a remarkably good job as they passed by. Voldemort's eye's narrowed, he never trusted men to whom there was more than met the eye. The man was even talking to one of the waiters, no doubt flattering him. Voldemort saw the man smile at some comment or other. There was nothing wrong with flattery, it was just that he preferred to be the one receiving it.

"Mr Snodgrass may I introduce Mr Potter. Mr Potter, Mr Snodgrass. I hope the two of you will get along like a house on fire," he said with a thin smile. _Painfully, destructively and resulting in amusing damage or death_ he added silently.

He turned away from them wandering into the crowd, although not fast enough to miss at least the opening of the conversation.

"Your friend seems a … remarkable fellow," Snodgrass began, cutting himself off by downing yet another glass of wine.

"Yes indeed. He is one of the few people I know who would be greatly improved by death," came the boy's reply. Voldemort glowered and a small, brown-haired, young lady who had just appeared in society for the first time hurried away to tell her mother that she thought she could wait a few years before appearing again.

He glanced around, for some reason no one was approaching him. He took the momentary opportunity to observe those around him. Snodgrass had just snatched the two last glasses from a tray carried by a familiar looking waiter and had reluctantly handed one to Harry out of politeness. Voldemort turned away, he decided that the best option was to hunt down the Princess, pay his respects as a diplomat and retire for the evening. He had promised Snodgrass that he would appear at the ball. He had not said for how long.

* * *

Harry thanked the ruddy-faced Englishman and promptly put the glass down on a side table without touching it. He made his excuses and slipped away into the crowd. Social events never put him at his ease. There were too many people around, too many opportunities for someone to stab you in the back. Someone bumped into him and he spun round, his wand already drawn. It was an elderly man, who had reached an age at which his hair had relocated from his scalp to his ears. The gentleman had tripped and seemed unable to get up. A nearby goblin dignitary sneered and turned away.

"I am frightfully sorry," Harry began, sheathing his wand and reaching out a hand help the man up. "Are you alright?" Then realising that he had apologised in English he attempted to do so in his rather flaky German.

"Mir geht es gut. Erm, I am fin?" The gentleman replied hesitantly.

"Ah, right, I mean … richtig, er no gut, oh I don't know. I _am_ sorry," Harry's desperate and somewhat hopeless attempt to apologise faltered as someone choked, coughed, spluttered and fell to the ground with a thud. Several candles on a nearby tree shuddered and almost fell. A man screamed, high pitched and horrified.

Harry looked around, he could see nothing unusual. The black back of Tom's robes was almost by the point in the wall they had entered by, apparently attempting to return to their rooms. Around Harry himself he could see faces with expressions of horror, fear or interest, and in some cases all three.

"Let me through. Let me through, I'm an auror," Harry heard Richard's voice ordering the guests. Everyone shuffled backwards giving way. A few tense moments passed. "I'm afraid he's dead. Poisoned probably. Fetch the citadel guards. This man was a son of England, and we _will_ see justice done."


	9. The Second Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the first part.

**Interlude**

_Stuttgart – Three Days After the Spring Ball_

"I'm really not sure that we should be leaving," Harry said. They were trotting down the main street of the city. It was early morning, as yet the tourists and visitors were absent from the street. Here and there the stall owners were setting out their wares.

"Yesterday you were eager to be off. Do stop being contrary," Tom snapped. He pushed past a dwarf who was wobbling, trying to place one final vase on his display. The light blow was enough to send dwarf toppling into it. The sounds of smashing pottery mingled with shouts of anger and frustration behind them, Tom carried on regardless. He chuckled. The dwarf swore loudly and a shard of glazed clay rebounded from a wall near Tom's head. Tom chuckled louder.

"He has a point Harry," Richard interceded. He slipped between a floating cart and the street wall, which obligingly bulged inwards for him. Behind them came the small troop of aurors under his command.

"Don't call me Harry ..."

"He prefers Boy-Wonder or the Boy-Who-Lost," Tom added, his frayed temper jumped at the chance to stir. He reached out and snagged a black cloak from a stall. It would probably have a pleasing swoop to it he thought. The proprietor had his back turned and Tom strode on unseen. The anti-theft charms on it were disarmed with a discrete wave of his wand.

"Put that back Tom. I had hoped you weren't a kleptomaniac," Harry complained. He brushed his unruly hair out of his eyes long enough to dodge the foot Tom had stuck out. "Damn, I need to have a haircut."

"Why not use a pair of shears? I doubt it'll make much difference," Tom quipped. He ignored Harry's order and ran his hands over the cloth admiring it.

"Oh grow up. You're a Dark Lord, or at least an ex-Dark Lord, the guards have _every_ reason to question you," Harry answered sourly.

"Less than to question you. You were the last person seen speaking to him. You were a terrorist with a grudge against the British government," Tom replied, "and you don't seem to be in a good mood about it either."

"I don't like people poking through my stuff," Harry protested. He sped up to keep pace with Tom who was storming down the street. "It's all just circumstantial evidence. They don't have a shred of proof."

"No, that's why they were looking for it," Tom said with exaggerated patience, as if to a child, conveniently ignoring his own anger at the guards' search through his possessions.

"Will you both just leave it? We're going. They determined that the investigation can go on without you, they took your statements … it is fine," Richard said with all the weariness of a man who had heard the same argument a dozen times.

"But they dared ..." Tom began.

"Yes. If they hadn't the suspicion would lie more firmly at your door," Richard stated firmly. "You at least should be glad to be out of there Harry ..."

"Don't call me Harry."

Richard threw his hands up in despair, "Fine, Potter then. Didn't you notice the goblins? They've been asking questions about you themselves. If I were you I'd be jumping for joy that their chance of finding me had just dropped a notch."

"Fine, great. It just feels as if I'm admitting running away," Harry grumbled.

"Luckily the Watch doesn't feel the same thing," Richard pointed out dryly.

"How … _optimistic_ ," Tom sneered. They came to a halt waiting for the guards to open the gates to the normal world. He slung his new cloak over his shoulders, doing up the clasp with fastidious attention so that it might lie properly.

Richard did not bother to argue. He simply rolled his eyes. "Where do you want the portkey to go? You haven't said."

"I've had my reasons. We're off to Altewald, it's in the north of the forest," Harry answered.

Richard frowned discontentedly, "But that's miles from where the attacks have been centred. Why should anything be going on up there?"

"Miles from most of the attacks, not all. There are _two_ patterns," Harry began, "the ones around Altewald are quite distinct from the main pattern. Whoever is perpetrating them is only attacking children. Everywhere else the victims have no discernible pattern. Only their backgrounds shows anything, only one or two have been 'purebloods'. Nominally at any rate. Up in Altewald they've all been between three and twelve and all in a tight area. No one over thirteen, no-one under three.

"It began only nine months ago. A few months after the other attacks started. Someone out there has decided to use this to go after children," Harry finished as the guards finished drawing back the gates and pulled the huge wooden doors open. Silver runes glinted upon the fresh oak in the young Moon's light.

"I wish you'd told me earlier. All the information I have is on the central and southern parts of the forest," Richard complained. He marched through the gates followed by the other three aurors. The world twisted around them. Colours blurred and spun until they were standing in a dusty back alley at the outskirts of muggle Stuttgart, brambles climbed from a pile of rubbish behind them.

"Odd you decided that was the stuff we needed, given that you didn't know where we were going," Harry remarked, thrusting his hands into his coat to ward off the nip of the early morning air.

Richard shrugged, "I saw the pins in the map, and it was a natural assumption to make."

"Indeed."

Five minutes later they were outside the city. There was the blue flash of a portkey and they were gone.

* * *

_The Black Forest – Nine Months Earlier:_

A wisp of fog flowed over the ground as the warm sun burnt off the morning dew. Far away in the wood birds sang. From somewhere the laughter of a small child could be heard. Here though there was silence in the dark, deep heart of the wood where the tall, black alders grew close together. The wind quieted its footsteps when it walked here.

Limpid-green eyes opened in the darkness of the earth's womb. He had been asleep for _so_ long as man followed man in brief blushes of life. He had survived upon thimblefuls of blood fed to him by the roots, it sustained him with the hopes and dreams of previous owners. It had left him as a shadow. He had eked out his existence on scraps in the belly of the forest. Now though he could feel it again: life. Life spreaded through the fibres of his being. Blood, rich, warm blood flowed down to him. Drip by slow drip he was revived. He stirred.

Stones, roots, earth surrounded him, encased him. He moved care, like a father setting down a sleeping child, as he rose upwards through the earth. He drew life from centipedes, worms and even a mole as he moved. At last he stood free, standing upon the long barrow where he had hidden, so many centuries ago.

He sighed and the wind changed. It raced through the trees, leaves whirled end over end under its caress. He stretched forth his pale, insubstantial hand and alder branches came to him, merging to his ethereal form: his bones. Soil and moss were drawn to him, wrapping around his fresh skeleton: new, spongy flesh. Leaves flew from the trees covering him in a mottled skin. The wood answered him, crowning him with antlers. Tendrils of curling ivy wound into a twisting beard. Eyes as yellow as daffodils blinked slowly on each side of the aquiline nose. He could smell young flesh in the distance. He began to stride through the trees. Around him fallen leaves flowed together, winding round his shoulders in a cloak of a thousand winter leaves, brittle and skeletal.

Clouds gathered overhead, rushing together to block out the sunlight as he stalked his prey. Huge, dark and black as the mouth of Hell they yawned above the forest, they blotted out the blue sky piece by piece. Rooks took to the air, leaving their parliament, cawing loudly above the rising gale. The forest hummed around him, trees bowing to their king.

He came to a clearing. The wind dashed around him greeting its master after a long absence. A small girl and her parents lay on the grass. Around them were scattered the remains of a picnic lunch. He held up a long, green hand and the clouds paused in their whirling dance and the wind dropped. The glade was bathed in the afternoon sun, warm and stupefying.

He stood, watching from the shadows of the trees, deciding how best to ensnare his target. His eyebrows, wisps of old man's beard, drew together. Then with a snap of his spindly fingers a single leaf rose, fluttering like a moth. He turned and vanished back under the cover of the forest.

A calm settled over the area. The sound of wind in the trees was a far off thing. The leaf spiralled down toward the girl, who lay curled up in a ball beside her mother. At last it brushed its wings over her cheek. She awoke from her dreams and saw it dancing to and fro in the storm laden air like a picture-book fairy. She gasped as the gossamer thin wings brushed her cheek again.

"Mummy! Daddy! Look!" She ordered imperiously, spinning in a circle to try to capture the strange creature.

"Mmm," her mother groaned, her head buried in the crook of her husband's arm. "Lovely darling."

Janina sighed. It was useless to try to get her parents to pay attention to anything during a post-lunch nap. She climbed to her feet and brushed herself down. The leaf was swooping backwards and forwards, almost within reach. As she looked up though it began to move away into the trees. She hesitated for a moment, following its flight with her eyes. Casting a final glance at her recumbent parents she set off after the leaf leaving them insensible to the world. It was not as if she would be long anyway, she thought as she run over the grass of the clearing, crushing it underfoot. Ducking and dodging between winding branches of oak and ash she pressed on after the spiralling leaf, determined to catch it.

The wood grew darker around her as she went, but intent on her prize she failed to notice. Suddenly the fluttering creature whipped away, shooting off upwards into the trees. Gazing toward the arching foliage she lost her footing, slipping on the leaf mould. She lay on her back for a few moments, green leaves spinning above her. Eventually she sat up, holding back a sniffle at the slight twinge of pain and the sight of a rip on her earth-streaked dress. She wiped a strand of blonde hair from her eyes, smearing mud over her cheek in the process.

"Blurry hell," she muttered, mimicking her father's reaction whenever he missed a nail whilst putting up a painting or a mirror. The usual laugh from her father whenever she said it, and her mother's scolding, were missing though. She felt small and cold as she realised how far from them she might be.

The leaf was gone and the wind with it. The wood was silent. No twig cracked. No bird stirred. Not so much as a leaf was moving. She turned around, trying to work out which way she had come from. The trees seemed to be closer together than she remembered, only a single path lay open.

"Mummy?" she croaked, the sound was stifled by the trees. She tried again, louder. It was no use, there was no reply. She straightened her dress and picking the direction which seemed most familiar set off towards it. From her left she heard a voice begin to sing. The voice was strange, piping like wooden wind-chimes in the breeze and yet as old and deep as the untrodden heart of the forest. Lilting notes drifting through the trees.

"Oh come my darling, come to me.

See, thy sisters lie by the willow tree.

There they rest, there they wait,

Till your presence shall their desire sate ..."

The voice trailed away leaving the last few notes hanging in the air. She turned away, hardly thinking about finding the way back as she sought out the owner of the voice. A vague idea that the singer might know the path back pushed its way into her thoughts.

She trudged further and deeper into the woods following the voice as it began to sing again. There were no words that she could distinguish this time, but the haunting melody wrapped itself around her, tighter than spider's silk. For her part she walked boldly and unthinkingly into the centre of the web.

In the clearing her parents slowly pulled themselves into wakefulness. The mother looked around and, unable to see Janina, poked her husband in the ribs, "Alexander?"

"Aah!" he shrieked as her poke woke him. "What? What is it?"

"Can you see Jan? I don't know where she is."

He scanned the surrounding trees. "No … JAN!" He bellowed hoarsely, his throat was dry from the sleep. There was no reply. They sat up, staring around with panic-stricken eyes. Around them the forest was silent. There was no sign of their daughter. The mother cast one more look around before pulling out her mobile and beginning to dial. The beeps of the buttons ringing in the silence of the wood.

Janina stepped under the bough of a young elder tree, ducking the low hanging bunches of deep, black berries. Behind her the branches swung down forming a lattice-work of wood. She coughed quietly to alert the tall figure, which stood in the shade of the trees, to her presence. The haze of magic which had fallen over her mind began to break apart drifting into pieces as the singing ceased.

The figure turned, antlers framed his head. He started to walk towards her. She spoke slowly, her eyes blurred, unable to focus on the thing before her. She thought he was an adult; adults could be trusted, couldn't they?

"Sir? I've lost my parents ..."

He stretched out a hand towards her. Long, thin fingers brushed against her forehead. His voice rasped, crackling like dry twigs, from the mouthless face, "Do not fear child. There is no need for fear or sadness any more …"

* * *

_The International Trans-Continental Railway Station, China_

Mustaphar prodded the sleek steel of the turnstile warily, it did not move. He prodded harder, it shifted by a centimetre or two and stuck. He tapped it again, muttering a word of opening, it refused to move. Maybe opening was too specific. He glanced cautiously around the train station and deciding that no-one was watching prepared to cast a small combustion charm.

"Can I help you?" A short, stout porter asked from behind him.

Mustaphar turned round smiling broadly. He looked the porter up and down, the man was dressed in a blue uniform, polished golden coloured buttons gleaming on it. They strained at the threads that bound them as his belly pushed them outwards. "That would be marvellous," Mustaphar purred, "how do I get through this … this contraption?"

"The turnstile?" The man looked unsurprised if a touch weary. "Well you have to use your ticket …" he noticed Mustaphar's empty hands, "or perhaps we should start with you buying a ticket. Far to go?"

Mustaphar nodded sagely, trying to imply that he knew exactly what he was doing. "Certainly. It is unfortunate that where I come from … creations such as these are not common," he said, gesturing towards the train which waited at the platform, the words _The Great Express_ emblazoned upon its shining flank. A small advert below read – _Now protected by the ex-Special Services Unions._ There was something almost disturbingly plain and workmanlike about the font.

"Yes, of course," the porter agreed politely, taking in Mustaphar's garb. It did not seem all too unlikely that a man dressed in such outlandish, and probably traditional clothes would not have encountered many trains before. Though how he had managed to make his way here from … well wherever he was from was another matter entirely. "Just follow me. Where are you from then?"

"Africa," Mustaphar replied lovingly, his voice lending an almost musical cadence to the word, a faraway look in his eyes. "That is how you name it now is it not?"

"Yes ..." the porter said slowly, "any particular part of Africa? It is quite a big place. Are you going back there? The railway is safe of course, at the moment, but I wouldn't like to be going that way myself …" They crossed the entrance hall of the station, Mustaphar's boots sliding slightly on the polished flooring.

"I am at home in many places," Mustaphar answered simply. "Is the way particularly dangerous? Bandits? Mercenaries?"

The man fidgeted as he walked, his thumbs sliding into the pockets of his neat, blue jacket, "No, no, nothing of the sort. You're some sort of traveller then?"

"Daemons then? Am I traveller? Yes, most certainly, I have walked from Zeila to Luoyang, I have seen the markets and temples of Petra and Luxor. One might almost say that I am _the_ Traveller."

"Daemons?" the porter choked on a laugh, trying not to offend the man. "Good lord no. There have been a few troubles over that way, but the rebels and such like stick away from the railway line. They don't irritate the company, they know what's good for them. Sounds as if you've been around a bit, though," the porter said trying to change the subject. "Luxor's in Egypt, am I right?"

"Yes, Sceptred Thebes, greatest of cities. Ah what I would not give to see it again," Mustaphar sighed longingly at the thought of the red pillared temples and the lore of the priests.

The porter came to a halt in front of a ticket booth, "Here we are then. I'll be off." He wandered away, searching for something to do with his time other than to peer at prospective passengers. The clock upon the archway to the trains struck the hour.

Mustaphar looked at the row of glass fronted boxes with their bored looking occupants. They looked like prisons. Cages in which to trap your workers, though he could see no chains upon them. He shuddered: perhaps their legs had been broken.

Walking up to the counter he declared, grandly, "I would like a ticket."

The pimple covered youth behind the counter glanced up, his dull eyes reflecting the glass, and ran a hand through greasy black hair, "Where to?"

"West," Mustaphar answered simply.

" _Where_ in the west?" The youth drawled, looking back down at his book again.

"Well how far do you go?" Mustaphar asked, trying to maintain his temper.

"It says on the sign, sir. Why don't you go and check that before bothering us. Next!" He called out, in an attempt to get rid of Mustaphar so he could carry on with his book.

Mustaphar looked around. There was no one else. It was five in the morning and the only other people at the station were an old woman mopping the floor and a few passengers who were already sitting down to wait for the next train.

"There isn't anyone else but me," he pointed out, "now will you help me or must I turn you into a frog?"

The threat failed to have the expected result. "A frog? Think you're a wizard or something? Give it a rest. Nice costume though," the boy said morosely and without any humour, "Now look sir, the information is all provided for you. Will you just go and look at it, I'm very busy."

"No you're not," Mustaphar said, his fingers clenching tight around his staff, "you're reading a book."

"A very important book, it's for my studies," the boy answered, refusing to give ground and stoutly continuing to read.

His staff crashed down on the floor, "Listen to me!" The boy looked up. Mustaphar gritted his teeth and spoke again, slowly, as if to an imbecile. "Sell me a ticket and I'll go away. If you don't ..."

"Where to?" the boy asked again after a pause, finally putting down the book.

"The furthest west you have. I can always get off along the way can I not?" Mustaphar asked, wondering whether it was worth it to ensure that the boy's pimples got progressively worse every time he annoyed someone.

"Fine," the boy tapped a few buttons on the screen in front of him, "that will be three thousand and fifty-two _chao_."

Mustaphar just about managed to prevent his jaw from dropping open at the price, "Ah, I'm sure I can manage that. Could you perhaps show me a piece or two of your currency. I seem to have forgotten what it looks like. I wouldn't want to get mixed up when paying ..."

The boy sighed. _A_ _nything to get rid of this weirdo_ , he decided, _still, it'll make an interesting story_. He rummaged around in his wallet and held up a slightly crumpled, plastic note for fifty _chao_. Mustaphar nodded gratefully and reached into his robe before drawing out a small pouch.

"What've you got in there grandpa? A bundle of five hundred _chao_ notes?" the boy mocked.

Mustaphar smiled. The pouch neither created false money, which might be detected, or went directly to a personal hoard. Instead it opened a quiet little portal to any stash of money in the immediate area. Mustaphar pulled out a handful of twenty _chao_ notes, it was probably only about four hundred _chao_ all told. The boy's eyes were already wide. He reached in further, ten, elven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifty _chao_ notes were pulled out next. Unfortunately the tills were largely stocked with the float alone and he couldn't risk digging into the one right in front of him. He pulled out a series of smaller notes and coins, they totalled another two-hundred and thirty-three.

"I guess I'll go as far as that takes me actually. I suppose I didn't have as much as I thought," Mustaphar said with a cheery grin. The boy looked at the grin and decided not to ask how the dark skinned man had managed to make a mistake between three and one thousand. Mustaphar reached in one last time and pulled what cash he could out of the boy's wallet. "You can add this on too." It was a final seventy-eight _chao_.

The boy tapped a few figures into the computer with a finger, purposefully dragging the transaction out. He yawned, "That'll get you to Kabul, or if you want to have a sleeping compartment the edge of Xinjiang province."

Mustaphar nodded firmly. "That sounds good. I am sure it is a more pleasant way to travel."

"If you want to get further you'll have to have a passport anyway. Border control over there can be pretty strict," it almost sounded helpful. Mustaphar's smile wided.

The ticket printed and before long Mustaphar was seated on the train. He tucked his feet up against the plush, synthetic cloth of the opposite seat. Back in the station the boy should have begun to feel the first stages of the curse Mustaphar had cast.

Mustaphar leaned his staff by the window and made a twisting motion with his hand. When the next passenger to board the train passed his compartment their eyes slid over the door and they carried on without pausing.

He rolled down the blinds on the windows. In the dull, brown half-light he pulled an object from the folds of his robes. It looked somewhat like a magnifying glass. It was about four inches in diameter; the glass was green and misty, encircled by rust coated iron. It was one of the better rewards from his hobby of treasure hunting. The majority of his collection must now be buried under the sands of the deserts.

He stroked his fingers across the glass. It fogged over, a coating of rime creeping over the surface. He quartered the circle, tapping each quadrant once with his index finger, leaving four, spiralled, blueish fingerprints on the thin coating of ice. His breath misted in the rapidly cooling air.

The key to this magic was speed and surety, but once you knew the name of your object it was easy. A golden spark glowed in one-quarter and he tapped it, immediately quartering the glass again, muttering under his breath, "Voldemort. Find him. Reveal him to me. Show me Voldemort." The golden spark appeared again, and again as he quartered the glass once, twice, thrice. Images spread like water through a cloth, the earth: tiny, blue, green, white and brown. It was gone subsumed into a vast stretch of land, seas far, far away. That too vanished, he saw a city which flickered in and out of view its walls glinting under a fading moon.

The picture faded. The scrying glass cleared of frost and he tucked it back into his pocket. The room began to regain its usual temperature. He smiled. He knew that place. That place had been old when he had last walked the world. He had a destination.

_**END OF PART ONE** _


	10. And in the Very Heart of the Forest

_**Part Two** _

**And In the Very Heart of the Forest**

Blue light flashed, thunder roared around Harry and the others as the portkey spun them onwards. The world shimmered for a second, almost materializing. Then an ear shattering, train crash of a noise rocketed them.

Harry came around slowly. The world swam into a vague approximation of focus. He groaned. His heartbeat thumped painfully behind his ears. He reached up a hand to rub his eyes, only to find that the hand was coming down to him. He blinked, it did no good. The world remained murky and apparently upside down. He rolled over the world made slightly more sense as he looked down over a small cliff, there was a small snap from his pocket. Below him lay trees shrouded in a blue haze.

Twigs, and his glasses cracked under his feet as he stood up. He sagged and, half blind, reached a hand down to search for the remains of his glasses. He swore as a fragment of glass cut into his finger and the blood welled up. He fished his wand from an inside pocket from his coat.

" _Reparo_ ," he murmured, a faint golden gleam flashed over the glasses. Fragments of lens leapt from the ground fitting together with a click like the pieces of a jigsaw before melding into a single whole. He slid them onto his nose, blood smeared from his finger over his temple. The world came into focus. He brushed himself down. As far as he could tell nothing was broken. For a few seconds he stood, wobbling from side to side, before taking a step and falling over. Bile rose to his mouth. He wiped his lips on the back of his coat's sleeve and stood again.

"Charming," remarked an unmistakable voice, acrid with dry sarcasm.

"Hello Tom. And here I was hoping you'd smashed your head against a tree or something," Harry replied weakly, placing an arm on the overhanding branch of an alder to support himself as he turned around.

"Unfortunately not."

"Where are the others?"

"Over there. They all seem to be well enough, more's the pity," Tom answered blandly. "You know I really don't think that much harm would come of it if they met an accident or three."

"No. We've discussed this. Will you please just be patient?"

"For now," Tom acceded, "and only, I repeat only, because I want to see your face when I'm proved right. Though since you haven't offered them your protection …"

"It isn't as if I trust them. Come on, apparate us to them, if you're quite done nattering."

"I cannot. There is some kind of anti-apparation jinx. I do not know where it ends."

They set off through the trees. Alders and elders swiftly gave way to the tangled mess of tall brooding pines.

"How very Hansel and Gretel," Tom remarked with distaste as he picked a path around a fallen tree, "I wonder if we will find a gingerbread house."

"I'm, surprised you know that story."

"One of my only pleasures when I was young, was a rather battered copy of Grimm's fairy tales. I used spend hours imagining worlds like that," Tom said wistful.

"Let me guess, you always supported the witches and monsters?" Harry asked, twisting away from a branch.

"No," Tom replied curtly, his normal, frosty demeanour snapping back into place.

They continued in silence. The peace of the wood was unbroken save for the snapping of twigs. Harry strained to catch sight or sound of Richard or the troupe of aurors, but the trees made it close to impossible. Once he thought he caught sight of one of the aurors in a long trench coat, but it was simply a broken branch still covered in long, sharp, dark green needles.

"Tom are you sure we're heading in the right direction?" Harry asked as they pushed through a tangle of brushwood. He took Tom's silence as an admission of uncertainty. "Damn it. Hello! Can anyone hear me?" The noise died away, fading into the tangled trees. He shivered, pulling his coat tighter about him. The silence pressed down upon him, a freezing fog of nothingness.

Tom sighed, "You could at least try to remember that you are a wizard. Please stop shouting like a moronic, mumbling muggle." He drew his wand and flicked it lazily through the air. A thunderbolt of sound crashed across the forest. The air pulsed and the trunk of a tree which had been unfortunate enough to be in Tom's path exploded into inch long slivers of wood as a fist sized hole was blown through it. Harry threw himself behind a twisted pine as a shower of sawdust and splinters whizzed past.

"That was creative," Harry huffed, picking himself from the earth. He dusted the pine-needles from his hand. Tom had not moved, remaining calmly in place. The splinters of wood had curved in shallow arcs around him. Tom turned to look at Harry a thin smile playing over his lips

"I think that they might be marginally more likely to hear that," Tom stated, sheathing his wand.

"Yes, I'm sure. A pity they won't be able to guess where it came from beyond this side of the forest. I mean, can you hear anything?" Harry strained his thrumming ears for any sound. He paused, his mind catching up with his mouth, "Actually, _can_ you hear anything?"

Tom tilted his head, frowning, "I hear nothing."

"Nor me," Harry shook his head. "Let's move. I get the unpleasant sensation that something knows we're here." Harry started off again trying to hurry away from the unnerving stillness.

"This doesn't make sense!" Tom argued, striding after him, "the aurors will still not know where we are. All you will have achieved is to leave a trail for anything else which is watching us. Dashing off may do us more harm than good."

"Maybe. We haven't been attacked." Y _et_ he added silently. He pushed between a pair of branches and into a clearing where the crackling pine needles met soft moss. The air was still, stifling even, deadening the senses. Upon the trees not so much as a leaf stirred. Harry swallowed thickly for a moment his feet froze unable to move forward.

"Which way should we go?" He asked, putting off the moment when he would have to step out from the pine trees. Tom emerged from the branches; pine-needles, dusted with resin clung to his robe. He shrugged, wordlessly.

"Onwards then," Harry muttered to himself and stepped forwards.

The moss was deep It muffled their footsteps and coated earth and boulders alike so that they appeared to be part of a single rolling carpet of green. There was a noise behind them, a cracking of twigs, and Harry ran. They were amongst the black and green alders again, catkins swinging to and fro from their branches like little bell-ropes as they brushed past. The branches curved over them, widening into a tunnel wide enough for two men to walk abreast between the walls of vegetation where bushes and shrubs crowded together.

"Stop," Tom spat, "this is not right."

"What?" Harry turned, trying to ignore the growing urge to carry on running.

"We are being led, can you not feel it? Have you noticed any other paths?" Tom hissed, his eyes flicking from side to side. "This one isn't natural, or rather it is _too_ natural. None of those branches have been clipped or broken. No animal has come here, the moss is untouched."

Harry took a deep steadying breath. "Draw wands?"

"Certainly."

Holly and yew slid out in unison. The two wizards moved closer together, never quite turning their backs on one another.

"Through the thicket?" Tom asked, pointing towards where the alders crowded most thickly. With a nod from Harry they set off again, severing hexes slicing through the brushwood and branches. They picked whichever way was hardest, wherever the trees most resisted their passage.

Even with magic the going was slow. There was not enough room to put aside the branches or crush them underfoot and they were forced to slice again and again. Before long a tongue of white fire was burning constantly at the tip of Tom's wand as he savagely mutilated any branch in his way. Wood hissed and screamed as curling fire turned it into ash.

At last there was open air beyond. Surging forwards they found themselves upon a spur of rock. Below them lay a cliff just high enough to have hidden the news that they had not reached the end of the trees. There was no way down.

"Ideas?" Harry asked, turning to face the trees again.

"We could fly down, you have your broom I suppose," Tom suggested.

Harry reached into his pockets. There was a pack of jelly babies, a few shopping lists, a battered Swiss army knife, and eventually a broken piece of wood followed by a second ending in a bunch of crushed twigs.

"Maybe not. Anyway, I doubt the others could follow us," Harry said, trying to hide his disappointment.

"If they are still alive. Are we still bothering with them?" Tom asked, faintly surprised. "For some reason I keep hoping that you'll see sense."

"Hmm," Harry glanced over his shoulder at the drop again, it really was too far to just jump. "We could conjure some rope? Maybe I could climb down …"

There was a rustling from the path they had carved. Tom spun round wand slicing through the air, "Avada k…"

* * *

_Earlier in Altewald_

Pale sunlight painted the shop a dull grey. The old wood and the groceries were highlighted more by the shadows than the light. From round the corner of a door in the corner firelight flickered, orange and yellow. The smells of cinnamon, all-spice, nutmeg, rosemary and other herbs and spices hung in air.

"And half a kilo of those apples, if you please," she decided at last, picking her purse from the mix of odds and ends within her bag. "Thank you, how much is all then?"

He told her the price, packing the apples into a brown paper bag and handing them over. "Would you mind coming round later? The hot water's gone again. Boris says everyone's electricity is on the blink. It'd be great if you could do another heating charm for us. Anka's back's playing up again you know …"

"It would be my pleasure," she reassured him. "I'll bring round that charm bracelet for Elsa as well. You've had no word on what's causing the power-cuts?"

He shook his head, running his gnarled hand over the worn surface of the shop counter. "Not so much as a whisper. There's one or two that think it's those thingies …"

"Wards?" She suggested.

"Aye, that's it. Those things you put up around the village."

"It is possible. Magic doesn't always interact well with technology."

"Mmm, well the company that own the main power cables were going to send someone down to check on them, but they didn't turn up. They couldn't have been caught in those webs of yours could they?" He asked awkwardly, uncomfortable about suggesting that she was to blame.

"I doubt it," she answered, "they were only tuned for magic users. I'll give it a check though. We don't want some poor electrician wandering around in circles. No one else has gone missing … apart from … well, you know … I mean your delivery man is getting through isn't he?"

He nodded, a shadow of pain flitting across his features. "He's been fine."

"Good. I promise I'll do my best," she patted his hand with a small smile. "I'll come back before curfew to sort things out here. Take care now."

"I will. You take care of yourself too. Times are bad enough without your people disappearing on us and all."

"Don't worry," she called back from by the door, "I have no intention of disappearing on anyone." The bell jangled and he was left alone. He fumbled under the till for the account book. He rubbed his eyes, trying to focus.

She swung her bags a little higher onto her arm to relieve the strain and set off towards her house. There were some things which she always preferred to do the muggle way, she had picked up the habit from her mother, and her mother in turn. She sighed as she passed the church and turned around heading towards the doors, it would be best to make sure that the electrician wasn't lost in her webs sooner rather than later.

The square was empty as she crossed it. The last decaying leaves of winter lay wet and brown upon the stone, a thin trace of yesteryear. She half closed her eyes imagining that they held the echoes of children's laughter, a pathway back in time. The doors to the squat, grey sandstone church opened with a groan, aged wood swung outwards slowly. The light inside was dim, filtering through the high windows. The scents of damp stone, cold air and stale incense mixed in the air.

She made her way through the church silently, head bowed in awkward respect. The door to the Church's spire opened easily, swinging back on iron hinges. She left the bags at the foot of the spiral staircase and began to climb up through the warped stone tower. The room, when she reached it, was pulsing blue, as it should do. It mapped the residual magic and activity of the forest which encircled the village. Swirling symbols of light dancing in the air like snowflakes. She brushed her hand against a few of the symbols looking out through the windows as she did so, checking the wards. Strands of magic flowed through her hands like silk.

It was as she was turning to leave that she saw it. A bright, pulsing trail of red and purple hanging in the air. As she watched it began to burn white. The air became opaque as the signal was overloaded. Someone, somewhere in the forest was using magic fast enough for it to start burning up the background power as well.

" _Sonorus,_ " she whispered, touching her wand to her throat. Her voice rang out through the village, "all broom riders are to assemble in the square. We have an emergency."

* * *

_Back in the Forest_

Harry's hand flew out, knocking Tom's wand to the side.

"I am Lord Voldemort. The most powerful wizard in a thousand years. I conquered death. I forced England to her knees. I have sacrificed more power than most men can dream of for knowledge! Knowledge which could unlock the very doors between the worlds! I am the stuff nightmares are made of! Do not presume to touch my person," Tom snapped, his temper flaring.

The green jet of light struck one of the trees. Leaves withered, bark split and curled. Tom almost smiled, or would have done, if Harry had not opposed him. The thicket spat Richard and the aurors. Tom mentally sneered at them, a little team of creeping watchdogs, chief bloodhound in the lead. He did not lower his wand, instead merely shrugging off the boy's hand.

"You were lucky," he commented, drawing himself up to his full height, "that the Boy is fond of foolishness. Otherwise you would be dead." They did not suspect his true meaning, like most humans they had the vision and intellect of mentally stunted ants. Nevertheless, their captain was intelligent enough to give a nod of thanks to the Boy.

"I'm glad we found you, my Lord," Richard panted, polite as ever. His face seemed peculiarly ruddy under his beard.

"The forest was too much for you then, Thorbecombe?" Tom asked, his tone tinged with bored toleration.

"Richard, sir. I don't know what's out there," Richard paused for breath, "but something is controlling the trees, we barely escaped them."

Tom noticed for the first time the scratches on their faces; there were bloody slices of flesh where their hands had been skinned, and their robes were torn. A mistake, he decided, observation was important. It was not a mistake he would make again. He never made a mistake twice, with one notable exception.

The Boy spoke up, peering into the vegetation, "The forest attacked you?"

"Yes."

"Exactly how did you end up here?" He asked. The point he was trying to make hit Tom and he stepped backwards towards Harry. The Boy may be irritating, but even Tom had to concede that he was handy with a wand.

"Well, we set off towards the ruckus you kicked off. Then, well we just tried to get away from whatever was attacking us as fast as possible …" Richard's eyes opened wide and he span around raising his wand just fast enough to deflect a branch which was heading for one of the aurors. Tom groaned internally. The trees began to move forwards swarming over the ground, roots unearthing themselves as they shuffled forward, boughs slicing the air like swords. For the first time that day there was birdsong.

Tom laughed as the joy of battle took him. His wand blossomed with fire: golden and white tongues of flame overlapped, intertwining into a long blade.

For trees they moved fast. Indeed, they moved surprisingly fast for most things, and they were deadly. Trees are tough, much, much, tougher than humans. Cutting curses will dig deep into bark, three or four might server a limb a branch as thick as your arm, but trees have a great many limbs. The loss of one or two does little to impede them.

Whips of fire were useful, Harry decided, but the wet wood did not burn easily. It was spring and the trees were filled with sap and life, they were hard to burn. At times it seemed the wizards' efforts only earned them flaming opponents who showed no sign of stopping.

Tom was in his element. He danced back and forward between branches. His sword sung in his hand. It looked ridiculous to Harry, but it appeared surprisingly useful. The flaming blade carved through the wood like a hot knife through butter. _Strange_ , Harry reflected, _that he should have ever bothered to learn such a spell, but arcane knowledge is his speciality._ Despite the circumstances Tom's evidently amateur style brought smile to Harry's lips, he looked like a child hitting nettles.

_Still_ , Harry thought, _live in the moment and all_. He ducked a vicious swipe from a young, bramble-tangled tree, and sank forwards onto one knee. Eleven inches of holly slashed downwards and green fire cascaded upwards crackling in a semi-circle in-front of him. An ill-timed swipe by a thirty foot alder carried it straight into the wall of flames. Green fire leap from air to wood, consuming everything in its path. For an instant the tree blazed, a towering inferno of wychfire before the rising wind caught it and it dissolved into a million, million fragments of ash. Harry could feel his arms shaking, the spell took too much energy when fighting things that size.

An auror stepped forwards. Richard's team had interlocked their shields. A haze of purplish light flashed red as the wood crashed against it, again and again. Richard had a fondness for blasting curses it would seem, either that or he did not know anything more effective against trees. Admittedly it looked good to rip chunks of from a tree's trunk, but they carried on regardless.

A tree reeled as Richard followed his blasting curse with a severing charm and with a cracking groan a tree split in two. The upper twenty feet of the tree crashed down onto the shield. Its bough's flailed against the shield, skittering over the hardened air. The auror directly beneath it began to sink to her knees, unable to hold aloft the weight. As one Richard and Harry struck the trunk with blasting curses, trying to lift it. The impact of the spells striking simultaneously managed to lift it away, but only for a moment before it fell back onto the shield. The spells flashed white and vanished, Harry tried to move forward, but he was too late. A limb stabbed forward skewering the throat of the woman, blood spilt out of her throat. Her hands flailed for a moment before going limp, her wand slid from her hand. He could feel her eyes resting on his as they glazed over. A moment later fresh green shoots burst from them, splitting her skull, feeding on her corpse.

Harry dashed forwards. He slashed his wand upwards and the air pulsed knocking the trees' limbs aside with the blast. Tom appeared beside Harry grinning madly. His cloak was swirling behind him, and his teeth were bared in a feral snarl as black lighting leapt from his wand. The spell ripped through a beech-tree, charring the bark and splitting the wood.

The aurors huddled closer together, recasting their shields as they waited at the edge of the precipice. The trees rustled and crept backwards as if regrouping. Tom looked mildly disappointed and dispelled the fires playing around wand. A group of the larger trees, beeches, oaks and black alders linked branches. They formed a crown of tangled thorns along the ridge which surrounded the little spur of rock.

Then Harry felt it. A rumbling from the rock. The ground shuddered, shaking as roots sunk into it. They ripped through the rocks with unnatural speed, forcing open the faults in the stone. He stepped back, turned swiftly and, using an old trick, pinched the fabric of the air, tearing open an auror's shield before climbing through. Tom followed, saluting the trees with his wand as the wind whipped his cloak back and forward.

"They're tearing through the rock! We need to get down from here," Harry shouted over the roar of the gale.

"What?" Tom asked, his lips twitching, "You mean down to those trees instead?" He pointed down to the green carpet of pine trees which swarmed at the foot of the cliff.

"Ah, bollocks."

* * *

They swept over the forest, the crystal in her hand pulsed with sharp red light. The pulses were drawing together as they grew closer to the disturbance. The wind tugged at them, icy fingers trying to pull them from the sky. The four riders who had come with her mounted the gale, flying stubbornly against the wind. The blue mist of the pines hung below them leaving the forest floor obscured. She gritted her teeth willing the broom onwards. A lock of her hair waved across her eyes, tugged loose from the tight plait by the wind.

It was Frederick who saw the place first. He caught up with her, bringing his broom alongside, "Arabella! Can you see it? There, up on the cliff!"

She squinted. On the heights of a grey sandstone cliff a blackened circle of broken trees, small fires and rising plumes of smoke marred the forest.

"What in Hell's name is going on there?" She murmured. Her words were swept away, lost to the skies as they swooped lower.

Harry frowned, concentrating as hard as he could. Vanishing the moss he blasted the earth aside, before carving the fourth of the seven runes of levitation onto the bare rock. The cracking of shattering rocks rumbled below them. Glowing fiery runes burnt against the grey stone.

"Hurry up, Richard!" Harry ordered as the auror channelled what magic he could into the second rune. Tom was proving irritatingly unhelpful; he had decided, it seemed, that floating a few feet above the spur of rock and watching Harry struggle to save the auror's lives was more amusing than taking part in the battle.

A section of sandstone crumbled from the cliff edge. The rocks crashed down until they rolled to a stop at the base of the outcrop.

"I would hurry up if I were you," Tom remarked calmly, floating over the edge of the precipice to gaze at the roots and creepers scaling the rocky wall. "Oh, I do believe that whoever is behind this has turned up to have a word. Shall I go and say hello?"

Harry glanced up long enough to see broom riders spiralling down from the stormy sky, "No, this isn't wizard's magic. Maybe they can help. No killing anyone."

"Very well," Tom agreed placidly, content to watch the advance of the roots. "Actually I was talking about that though," he added mildly, pointing to where a flock of crows were circling above the trees. Feathers drifted down from the flock, though they did not land; instead they swirled together into a form close to that of a man. An eight foot tall man, made of glossy, black feathers.

"Fine, go and see if you can't delay it," Harry said, trying to focus his exhausted mind to carve the sixth rune. It came out a dull orange, barely visible. If the rock even stayed in the air it was going to list. He sighed and moved on. Hopefully the others would balance it out. One more to go. The crag wobbled as the roots dug in deeper.

Tom strode through the air towards the trees and whatever was controlling the feathers, his cloak billowing around him. The actual movement was unnecessary, but it _felt_ impressive. Below him the trees bent in the howling wind, his hair flicked to and fro. He swept aside the debris of the battle aside with a casual flick of wand sending sticks and charred bracken tumbling away until the wind caught them, snatching them up into the sky. Occasional fires flared up as the wind kissed them.

At the cliff's edge Harry finished carving the seventh rune. Richard bound the third to the first two, holding the rock together with faint threads of sky-blue light. The broom riders were descending slowly, battling their way through the storm. Harry stood, straightening up, his black hair wild in the wind.

"Greetings," Tom began, his long, pale wand held by his side, "I am Lord Voldemort. Are you the master of these trees? Are you capable of speaking with me?"

The shadowy mass of feathers nodded. _Greetings, Lord Voldemort._ It did not speak in any language as such but there was a sound in the mind; the wind whistling through a river's reeds; the groaning of oaks in a summer storm; the ringing of wind-chimes in the trees; the laughter of children, and the knowledge of what it meant. _I am the Oldest King._

"Well then, could you stop trying to kill," Tom looked over his shoulder and pointed at Harry, "that boy, the black haired one? And yours truly of course."

The man of feathers tilted its head to the side. _You do not care about the others?_

"No."

There was a wave of repulsion, horror even. _Have you no respect for life._

"Only lives which matter. Why do you care? You are the one seeking our lives. You attacked me," Tom pointed out, descending so that his eyes were on a level with the creature's head.

_You struck the first blow. We seek to preserve our kin. You were given safe passage. You refused it. You cut down_ _ **my**_ _folk!_ The being surged forward, feathers swirled in and out of its limbs. It stopped an arm"s reach from Tom, the feathers locking together like slices of jet.

"You were trying to help us?" Tom threw back his head and laughed. "I see. But you know you aren't going to win. We command _fire_. This hill bears witness to the destruction we can rein upon you if you dare to raise your …" he cast a glance over the creature, "feathers against us."

_The wood will not burn_. The King's feather's gleamed as lightning ran across the sky. The storm broke, huge droplets of water crashing down quenching the already dying fires.

"Ah, so _that's_ why you wanted a storm …" Tom nodded slowly, "magnificent."

_Run little wizard._

Tom shrugged, and in one lithe movement raised his arm, "Avada kedava!" The green light sighed as it cut the air. It struck the figure on the left side of its chest. The trees howled. A single feather burst into flame curling around itself and folding inwards like a scrap of paper. The creature stood still for a second before raising its hand, a signal, not to the trees though, but to its enemies.

* * *

As the broom riders descended Harry frowned, there was something familiar about the lead rider. She had drawn her wand and had it levelled towards him. Not necessarily a rescue party then. He considered summoning the brooms from under them before dismissing the idea.

The lead rider drew her wand in a tight circle before slashing a line through the mark. A shimmering bubble sprang from the sigil as it hung, glowing, in the air. The bubble expanded around the other riders who added further marks to the shield. Within it calm settled as the riders straightened their brooms. There were five of them, three women and two men, clad in hard wearing clothes, their hair was tied back and their wands were drawn. The leader had long red hair bound in a thick plait which fell over her shoulder. Beside her a young man with dark hair and thin, angular features flew. His expression was with interest rather than hostility.

Arabella gazed curiously at the rune she had drawn in the air. Green flickers of light were playing around its edges, dissolving it like acid on chalk. She shook her head and looked down at the man standing upon the teetering lump of rock, coat flapping around him.

"Hello I did not expect to see you here," he said, any surprise hidden behind a blank mask, "would you care to help us?" Behind him the black robed figure of one of his companions seemed to be talking to the feathery mass which stood before the trees.

"Mr Potter, I didn't expect to see you here either. Are you the cause of this …" She waved at the broken hilltop.

He grimaced, "I might have had a hand in it. In my defence the trees did attack _us_." The rocks he was standing on wobbled and almost fell, as the cliff below them partially collapsed. A net of pale-blue lines glowed brighter across the slab of rock he and his companions were crowded on, stabilising the rocking to and fro. The green eyed man looked incredibly pleased with himself. "I told you it would work! By Merlin I'm good."

She suppressed the desire to order the retreat. There was something about seeing him there, standing triumphant on the tottering precipice with fire and smoke behind him, which made her want to leave him to whatever fate he would find amidst that blood and death.

"Aren't we going to help them?" Frederick asked, pressing the issue. His pale face was illuminated as a bolt of lightning crackled across the sky.

"What if they've taken the children?" She asked, 'I met this man in Phalsbourg. Who knows how long he's been around here?'

Roots snaked up over the lip of the cliff only to slide off the auror's shields. The roots locked onto the edge unprotected by the shields, tearing at it. A fine layer of dust rose into the air as the stone was ripped apart. Thunder rolled and a section of the plateau leading to the spur collapsed, revealing a mass of writhing roots.

"If they've taken the children we can question them. If they haven't we need to save them," Frederick argued as the pillar of stone supporting the rock fell away. Only the threads of magic held the floating island of stone aloft. At least one of the wizards on it looked close to collapse.

"Fine, but bind their hands. Take them one at a time," she ordered, loud enough to let the wizards on the rock hear.

Harry nodded to the others on the rock as a rider swooped out of the bubble. Richard frowned but sheathed his wand nonetheless and allowed the rider to bind his hands before mounting him in-front of her on the broom. Harry took over from Richard, powering the levitation spell. A few moments later the second auror was taken by Frederick.

Harry's hands shook; his glasses slipped down his nose; heat pulsed from his wand, and the earth beneath it steamed where the tip met the centre of the net of light. In the distance there was a green flash and the trees howled. The last auror's shield fell as he was pulled onto a broom. Rain began to fall, lashing over them.

Harry ripped his wand from the stone, cutting off the flow of power to the runes as the roots swarmed over the rock. The blue stands of power held as he lashed out around himself. Purple light scythed through the barbed tendrils. At least the spell held until the roots pulled away the flimsy sixth rune. The rock swung wildly, listing to the left. The roots upon the opposite side snapped in two. One of the threads winked out of existence vanishing in a spray of sparks. The others frayed, pulling apart.

Harry leapt as the rock swung, clinging to the raised edge of sandstone as it crumbled under his fingers. He tried to heave himself up, but a sudden movement from the rock as something hit it almost threw him off, his coat flapped against the stone. The rough surface dug into his fingers. One hand came free and he scrabbled hopelessly, a nail tore, bright blood rising to mix with the mud and sweat. He swore only for the rock to knock the breath from his lungs. A hand grasped his and a thick black cord bound their forearms together.

"Hold on. I think it is about time we got out of here," Tom said before leaping from the rock as the last of the magic broke apart. For a second the stone hung, suspended in the air before it fell earthward. An ear shattering crash rang out as it shattered below. The yank on Harry's arm was tremendous, his muscles screamed.

"Follow us! And do not fall behind!" Arabella called over the storm before turning her broom around. The bubble which had surrounded her cracked apart.

Behind them came the cawing of a thousand crows as the birds took flight.

* * *

_The Wizangamot_

Draco Malfoy strode from the black hall of the Wizangamot. The silver gates to the rest of the Ministry crashed open as he reached them. The red-robed lords of the wizangamot stood slowly and filed out in silence.

In his personal rooms Malfoy poured himself a glass of the Massandra 1775 sherry. Moisture condensed on the crystal as he filled the tulip-shaped glass. He placed the decanter back on the table and took a seat, waiting for his guests to arrive. His fingers clenched and unclenched on the arm of the chair. His eyes were fixed on the mirror above the mantelpiece. He sighed, he needed to relax.

A soft knock came at the door. For a moment the glass of the mirror clouded before the faces of the Tobias Selwyn, and Aerona Gwaedpur appeared in it. Malfoy smiled thinly and tapped his armrest. The mirror returned to normal.

"Enter," he commanded. He stood, politely. They bowed, glancing at one another briefly, nervously. "Come and seat yourselves. Would you care for something to drink?"

"No thank you, Minister," Aerona answered coolly. Tobias merely murmured something indistinct.

"Very well. A bite to eat perhaps," Malfoy offered, placing his own glass on the table.

"I think not Minister," Aerona replied firmly.

"If that is your decision. Now, how are you both? I hear your eldest daughter is just about to start at Hogwarts, Tobias?"

"Um, yes, sir. Yes she is," Tobias answered. He rubbed his hands together, eyes flicking towards the door.

"Come, come Tobias. Stop worrying so. I'm not going to kill you; I'm a civilised man," Malfoy smiled benignly, his skin crinkling like worn paper.

"What then do you want with us?" Aerona asked, her voice had the lilt of the Welsh valleys to it.

"I want to persuade you. Isn't that what civilised people do?" Malfoy asked, a hint of hurt creeping into his tone.

"You can't justify the measures you are proposing! They will lead to war," Aerona protested.

"I can. I really, really can, but you two are leading the lords against me, against the safety of the country. I am not the one seeking war. I need you on my side Aerona, I need you beside me. Look at the world. Beyond this island forcing are moving, forces that want to see our nation cast down from its pedestal …"

"Then maybe it is time to step down gracefully, before we are pushed," she interrupted, "you cannot hope to persuade me with talk of our nation's greatness. It is built on blood!"

"Blood we have shed for it. Only the other day, within the vaunted neutrality of Stuttgart a delegate from _our country_ was killed. Murdered. Are you proposing we stand by and let the murderers go unpunished? The French push for concessions, demanding that we give up British territory, surrender British citizens to them. Do you want that?" He asked pleadingly, his voice trembling.

"Peace, no matter the price, is better than more war. Murderers should be apprehended, but you are confusing the issues here," Aerona argued, her voice rising.

"What do you think Tobias? Does Aerona speak for you as well? Wise men speak because they have something to say; fools speak because they have to say something. Which are you?"

Tobias fidgeted awkwardly in his chair. He folded his hands over his stomach. "Well … there are many issues at stake here. Not all problems should be addressed as if they carried equal importance … um, it's really a matter of what we feel the country needs most … erm, you understand, glory and honour are important, but not as much as peace … D'yeh see what I'm getting at?" He trailed off ineffectually.

"Of course I understand," Malfoy reassured him, "but let me try and explain. You see without honour and glory our country will be seen as weak. We have allies and friends over the globe; we have our people all over the globe, and they need us to be strong. Our strength means that people think twice before they raise their hand against us … do you want to take that away? Of course you don't."

"No, but ..."

"Minister," Aerona interrupted, "this is getting us nowhere. Do you really imagine that this is doing you any good? I am not willing to move on this point. This country needs peace to recover from the wars you have thrown us into."

"Oh Aerona. We might easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy is when men and women are afraid of the light. What a pity you refuse to even consider your position. I asked you here simply so that we could talk about this like reasonable people, but since you refuse I suppose this discussion is at an end for now." He pressed the armrest again. "And I think that will make a lovely broadcast for the radio don't you? Particularly with a little, careful editing. What a pity you wouldn't actually get involved in any real debate about it."

They blinked at him, looks comprehension dawning on their faces, "You bastard. You aren't going to get away with this ..."

"On the contrary, I think that your popularity may be about to take a significant dive. Advocating peace at the country's expense? Surrender even? I think your fervour for candour may have run away with you. You know that almost sounds like treason even … what do you think?"

Tobias swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously, "He has a point Aerona, you know how the public react."

"But we didn't say anything we haven't said already! You've twisted this conversation!" She protested futilely.

"Indeed! But on the other hand this little recording need never reach the public ear …"

"If …?" Aerona asked cautiously. There was always a chance the offer would be better than public disgrace and death.

"If you join my cabinet," Malfoy answered brightly. "Why not try and change the way things are done from the inside. If you don't you'll almost certainly guarantee things go my way anyway, just stay in the game. All you are doing currently is tearing the country apart. Which would appear to be exactly what you wouldn't want. Even you have to see that civil disturbance would set the vultures circling. I forgot to ask Tobias, how _is_ your daughter getting on by the way?"

"She's ... well. We don't have a choice do we?" Tobias asked.

Malfoy considered the question. "Honestly? No. For some reason people believe I have achieved my goals by playing with kid-gloves. I don't wear gloves, but I do play. I didn't need to do this. I have a great many dedicated servants who would happily have tortured you and your families into oblivion and then stepped into your places. We would have kept you just healthy and alive enough for polyjuice to work. I haven't done that, do you want to know why?"

They looked at each other for a moment. Malfoy rolled his eyes, "It was rhetorical. I'm letting you continue because yes, I want to keep things stable, but more importantly because I want to play this game without cheating. So, do we have an agreement? Will you join my cabinet and work from the inside to destroy me? Or will I just have to break the game? Speak up, I don't have all day."

* * *

_Altewald_

They half flew, half dropped from the roiling sky. They landed in the village square, panting. Cold sweat mixed with the rain ran down their faces and drenched their clothes. The rain lashed over them, stinging as they fell from their brooms. The water washed away the blood from their cuts and scratches where the crows' claws and beaks had struck home. Tom tapped the band holding him to Harry, letting it dissolve into the aether. Harry was as pale as a ghost and clutched his arm, rubbing the life back into it. They both looked upwards scanning the sky for any sign of the crows pursuing them further.

"We ought to get under cover," Richard warned as one of the riders undid his bonds. "The crows might be back at any moment, and we have to get these brooms out of sight before any muggles see."

"They won't be back. They can't pass the wards," Arabella promised as she threw down her broom, the wood clattered on the stones. "As for the non-magicals, that isn't a problem here. Everyone's in on the secret. Frederick, get some answers from them as to who they are, separately mind. They may have a cover story prepared, but it's always worthwhile to check. I have business to attend to. Personal business." She set off across the square towards Harry, limping slightly.

Harry watched her warily. There had been something about her attitude that suggested she associated something more than chess with him. The opinion was reinforced as her hand smacked into his cheek in a solid punch, sending him reeling backwards. He hit the ground hard and grimaced.

"What was that for?" He asked, wiping blood from his broken lip.

"That, Mr Potter, was for my family. You were supposed to be their _friend._ You betrayed them," she spat the words glaring at him.

He stood there, staring at her, aghast. The rain washed away her spittle as it poured down. "Who are you?" He asked hollowly.

"I am Arabella Fairchilde. Daughter of Rose Fairchilde, daughter of Ron and Hermione Weasley. I want a word," her fingers closed on his ear as she dragged him towards the church.


	11. Oathbreakers, Murderers and Liars

**Oathbreakers, Murderers and Liars**

They stepped out of the pouring rain and into the silence of the church. Inside the thick walls the rain seemed far away. Harry turned to look at Arabella. She shook her head and push him on between the pews until they were came to the vestry. She closed the door and took a seat. A wordless sealing spell flashed across the door frame.

Harry looked around for a chair, but there wasn't one and so he slumped onto the floor. He stripped off his wet coat and laid it out on the floor beside him. He grunted, leaning against the doors to a creaking wardrobe, before closing his eyes. He was unpleasantly pale; there were dark circles clear beneath his eyes; his hair was matted and his clothes were ragged. The leg of his trouser was covered in sticky, red blood from a long scratch.

Arabella sat staring at him for a few moments, wondering where to start. Her fingers were aching from the punch, but it had felt good. She considered doing it again.

"I appreciate the chance to sit down, but I have things to do you know," Harry muttered.

"You betrayed my grandparents. _You_ lost the war! You led hundreds to their deaths and then threw away their sacrifices! What reason could you possibly give me to let you out of here?" She stopped, breathing fast. "I want an explanation."

Harry hesitated, considering his options, "Why do you think that _I_ did that? Because I share a name with someone? A lot of people share names. As far as I can tell that's all you know about me," Harry scoffed, refusing to open his eyes, biting back the shame.

"My Grandmother used to tell me stories about when she was young, before the war began. She kept the photos," she answered bitterly. Harry flinched. "Your name rang a bell. I started to look through some of my Grandmother's stuff, fairy stories, notebooks, photos ..."

"Ah … I'm a descendant?" He suggested, the lie came out as a question.

"Even down to the scar? How come you're still alive? It has been what, a hundred and forty years? Admit it, be proud that you're a backstabbing traitor. I should have left you in the forest: you won't even admit who you are. How cowardly can you get?"

"Got your Grandmother's memory then," Harry sighed, cracking open an eye.

"No. I put it down in a notebook that evening, your name refused to stop nagging me," she replied, her fingers tightening around her wand, "but you admit who you are then? No more denials?"

"I never denied who I was. However, I admit I am Harry Potter. You _do_ have Hermione's memory though."

"Why? Why did you do it?" She asked quietly.

"All men break oaths; some oaths break men. I chose to break my oaths first before more people died."

"Stop giving me flowery rhetoric and tell me _why_! Or I swear I will take you back to the forest and leave you there."

"Why what? Why did I let my friends die? Let Voldemort live? Let Britain rot? What in particular? I have a lot of crimes to answer for. It isn't as if you were the ones to pull me out of the forest anyway," he gave a bark of laughter before gasping with pain, clasping at his leg. "Don't you love life's little ironies?"

"Any of it. All of it. I _knew_ my grandparents. They loved you, even in exile. My Grandmother convinced herself that you must have died. She refused to believe the rumours that you survived. My Grandfather refused to mention your name, I think he did believe what you'd done, but he still listened when my Grandmother talked about you."

"I was never the man Hermione took me for. I did what I did in the name of peace, hope and sanity. I couldn't _beat_ Voldemort. I restrained him by the only way I could: I let him win, in one, small corner of the globe. A sacrifice, but a necessary one. You want to know why I'm still young? It's because I'm the thing that anchors him to this world." He grimaced, humourlessly.

She rubbed her hand over her face, trying to think what to ask next. She flicked her wand, lighting the candles dotted around the darkening room, filling it with dim, orange light. "Then you hid because you didn't want anyone to know about your _sacrifice_? Don't try to pull that one on me. You anchor him to this world? What do you mean? How does that explain why you don't age?"

"That's a long story, and very private."

"Then tell me the short version. And think about it, I have a right to know."

He shifted uncomfortably, beginning to peel back the bloody trouser leg. "I suppose you do. Shouldn't we check on the others first? You don't even know why we're here."

"Tell me your story. We'll deal with anything else later."

"Fine. Anything I tell you is just going to be an abridged version of the ideas spun by two of the most intelligent people I ever knew. The speculation and theory side of this stuff was way beyond me.

"Voldemort split his soul a number of times and housed the fragments in various artefacts. Very Tolkienesque really. The thing is the soul is a delicate thing. He hadn't just split it and portioned pieces out, he'd also split it internally. Ordinarily that wouldn't have been a problem. A living body provides a stable container, the most stable in fact. After a point if you make enough horc … such artefacts you can only use living beings, otherwise the soul fragment won't survive. But a little accident; a very specific invocation of old magic, and one baby later he ended up with an obliterated body and a soul so tattered that it could barely hold itself together.

"The shock of the encounter detached part of his soul, the part he had already prepared to use as his final anchor. The explosion couldn't kill it though, so there was a preserved piece of soul looking for a home. Magic was coursing through the nearby baby which became an anchor, with all the protection that involves. An anchor is impossible to kill except by a very, very few means. It is preserved in the optimum condition for survival. That stuff is _powerful_ soul magic. It might even tweak reality. There have been a great many times I should have died," he paused, wincing as he looked at the sticky gash, coated in blood and mud which ran down his leg. "You wouldn't have anything for this would you?"

She shook her head, "Finish telling me and I'll see what I can do."

He nodded, unable to summon the energy to argue. He let his leg slide back down onto the green carpet as he began to tease a bramble from the wound. He slowly drew out the curved barbs. "Thing is I wasn't old enough. A piece of soul like that seeks the strongest container, preferably one it controls. It couldn't control me, there was … other magic acting upon me too. A baby's body isn't much use either, but the human body has marvellous potential; that's what it banked on. It waited and waited until I reached my peak, then it kept me there. Least way I think so. It did the job it was meant to do. It survived. There isn't a way to remove something like that from an object, much less a person, without destroying it. It's why Dark Lords like that type of magic so much."

"So to defeat Lord Voldemort you would have had to die?" She asked incredulously, "couldn't you bear the thought of sacrificing yourself? Joining the ranks of everyone else who'd made that choice?"

"If it had been a choice I could have made I would have. The problem was, is, that due to another piece of magic, I am the only one who _could_ kill him, and vice versa. The idea of a lifeless world with only the two of us in it wasn't particularly attractive."

"You couldn't have taken him with you then? Jumped off a cliff and pulled him over too or something then?"

"That really wouldn't have stopped him," Harry replied with a wry grimace, "maybe I could have done it, but what if I'd got it wrong? What if I'd died and he'd found a way to carry on anyway? He'd damaged his soul too much to split it further, but where there's one way there might be another. He is brilliant enough to create a philosopher's stone if he put his mind to it. Immortal, maybe not, but eternal certainly.

"Hermione tried to persuade me to capture him, imprison him forever. The only problem was that I know he would have escaped. Azkaban wouldn't have held him; Nurmengard would have been left in smoking ruins. So I made a choice, and yes I regret it," he sat back closing his eyes again. "We fought our way to him and, as Ginny and the others held the way thinking I intended to kill him. I made a bargain. To protect them, to protect them all.

"I was going to take us all to safety outside England. When I left the chamber though … Ginny was already dead. I fled with her body, too ashamed to let Ron or Hermione know, to let anyone know, that I was alive. I have _tried_ to make amends … in the end I went into exile, back to Britain. It's was the one place I couldn't damage even more. The Ministry left me alone and I left them alone …" his voice petered out. There was a knock at the door, Arabella ignored it.

Arabella sat still for a moment. "Do you realise how pathetically self-pitying you sound? You tried to make a deal with the Devil. Such things never work. You shouldn't have betrayed your friends."

The person knocked again. "Arabella."

"I was trying to do what was best … I couldn't face them after what I done ..."

"You were trying to do what was best for you. I bet you couldn't face them," her face was tight with anger. "Now you say you're here 'to help'. How? Do you intend to kill us? That seems to be your modus operandi …" She broke off as the door swung open and Frederick peered in.

"Are you okay? Archie has summoned the village. The travellers … they've come from her Highness, in Stuttgart … is he alright?"

Harry slumped over, unconscious.

* * *

Harry came to slowly, his head felt fuzzy. He could not have been unconscious for long. The candles had not burnt noticeably lower. Nonetheless someone had cleaned and bandaged his leg. Arabella was nowhere in sight. He winced guiltily. He could see his friends in her. She had Ron's long nose and, despite the difference in the colour, Hermione's hair had been passed on. He closed his eyes shutting out his feelings, they could wait. A quiet cough disturbed his musings.

"Good, you are awake. The village is buzzing with your arrival. Everyone's gathering in the nave. I don't think anyone believed her Highness actually cared … I'm sorry that I couldn't do more for your leg. The spells were reluctant to take hold. I have done what I could, just don't put too much weight on it," a thin young man explained from by the door. "I am sorry for Arabella's behaviour. I have never seen her behave like this, except when arguing with Ambrose, of course."

"Don't worry. I deserved it. Thanks, by the way," Harry answered, levering himself up on his elbows, "help me up would you …?"

"Frederick."

"You were out there weren't you?" Harry asked with a grunt as Frederick gripped his forearm, hauling him onto his feet. Harry grunted as his leg burnt with pain, but he straightened up nonetheless. "What time is it? It seems awfully dark outside."

"It must be about six o'clock. Arabella's wards do strange things to time. We've lost a few hours. Everyone's just through here," Frederick beckoned him through into the nave.

The pews were filled. Around the back and at the sides stood more of the villagers, some looked distinctly uncomfortable. Candles burnt on the black iron candelabra. Thin curls of grey smoke spiralled upwards. Around the chancel Tom, Richard and a handful of others Harry did not recognise were seated. Arabella was just below the altar, next to the steps of the pulpit. The doors to the church closed with a low boom and the chatter died. Harry nodded his thanks to Frederick and leant on the door frame to the vestry. He was unwilling to approach the altar and join the others. Not least because Arabella was staring daggers at him from a seat to the right of the tabernacle.

A thin woman with bird-like features and grey hair bound back in a tight bob stood up. With stiff, slow movements she made her way to the altar. As she began to speak Harry let his mind spread, drawing upon the collective linguistic knowledge of the other listeners. He had to grit his teeth against the chatter of minds, bone-weary as he was it was almost impossible to siphon out the dross.

"Welcome, one and all. These gentlemen," the lady gestured to Tom and Richard, "as well as their compatriots have been sent by her Highness, to help us. I know you will all do your best to help them. They have not shared our pain; they do not share our blood, but they _do_ share our desire to end this. I hand you over to Herr Richard Thorbecombe," she finished, stumbling over the unfamiliar syllables of Richard's surname.

Richard stepped forward. He was imposing in his dark robes; his beard with its streaks of silver amid the black lent him an air of gravitas. To Harry he sounded like a Ministry propaganda broadcast. "Ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards, people of Altewald. As Frau Kaeuperman has explained we are here to help you, but we need your help to do it. My aides," he waved his hand to the two remaining aurors, "will take statements. However, I would like a summary of what has been going on. Would someone oblige me and step forward?"

He was cut off by the babble of voices as people sprang to their feet, all trying to give their own stories. Voices rose higher and higher as the villagers struggled to be heard. Harry clasped his hands over his ears trying to shut it out, or at least reduce the volume.

"... sixteen children gone, vanished ..."

"I daren't go into the woods ..."

"I'm not even allowing little Alfred outside!"

"The power's gone most of the time. Something wants to cut us off from the outside … the new wards don't help none neither."

"The trees whisper in the night, I hear them ..."

"The birds don't come here anymore either ..."

"Our Lisa was taken! Snatched when we were out for a walk ..."

"SILENCE!" Tom stood in the pulpit like some unholy priest ready to hurl down fire, brimstone and damnation. The hubbub died away. Those who had stood moments before sat back down. His hand swept out as Richard stepped forward about to continue speaking and the burly auror took his seat. Tom waited until there was silence and continued softly, "Listen to me. We have come to help. We will find answers. We will find the children. However, _you_ are not helping. Those in charge may stay. The rest of you are to go home and look after whatever families you have left, my … colleagues will take statements from you individually.

"In future, whichever of you was idiotic enough to call this meeting, remember that too many cooks spoil the broth, or whichever idiom you find most suitable. Frau Kaeuperman, would you and your colleagues stay behind. Choose anyone you believe would be useful for us to talk to." There was a brief pause as the grey haired lady picked out a single man from the crowd to remain. Arabella remained too as Kaeuperman beckoned her up. She gave Tom a brief nod. He turned and flung out his hands, the double doors at the back of the nave crashed open again, "Now, OUT!"

_It might as well be a play with all this enter stage right, exit stage left stuff_ , Harry thought as he closed his mind to the babble of the crowd.

As the last stragglers left the church Harry stepped forwards. He limped between the pews before walking up the aisle to join those who were left. Tom had not left the pulpit and stood hunched over the wooden balustrade. The candlelight played over the five seated figures in the chancel. It heightened the shadowed crevices and crags of their faces. Universally those seated in the chancel were elderly or at least in late middle age. One of the two men was balding, only tufts of white hair sprouting from his head marred the smooth dome. Kaeuperman nodded to Harry as he limped towards them. He returned the gesture before he stationed himself at the entrance to the sanctuary.

"You must be the other young man from Britain. I hope you are feeling better. Frederick works wonders," Kaeuperman said with a small smile of welcome. "Allow me to introduce my fellow council members. This is Johan, he is Frederick's father and our resident sawbones." She gestured to a portly gentleman on her left wearing a berry-red waistcoat, he was somewhat younger than the others; his head was crowned with long grey hair mottled with brown.

She continued without pause, her tone brusque and efficient, "This, is Elizabeth. She and Yanek here," she motioned to the balding man on her far left and a prim, small woman with bright eyes, "practically run the village. They are the grandparents of the first girl to disappear. Their son was visiting with his wife and child in July. This lady is Vanessa, she is the local magistrate for her Highness. You have already met Arabella. Her aptitude when it comes to the magical arts has led to our defences, and her place on the village council. Though those same defences prevented Vanessa of being aware of your arrival. You will see to that, Arabella," she added sharply. Arabella pursed her lips, but nodded.

Harry gave a tight smile, "It is wonderful to meet you all. I have rarely met so … distinguished a council. You remind me greatly of a highly honoured assembly I once stood before in my youth."

Kaeuperman nodded shortly. "Thank you. Now," she beckoned to the villager she had told to stay behind. He was a tall man with a haystack of blonde hair and a heavy face. He stood up from his seat on the front pew and marched forward, huge Wellington boots scattering mud over the floor.

"Damen, Herren," he mumbled, obviously uncomfortable in what must have felt like the beginnings of an inquisition

Kaeuperman addressed him shortly, her brittle tone snapping through the air, "Heinrich, tell them what you know.

"Heinrich, is the father of the second child to disappear. He had taken him fishing when the child vanished. He has the best idea of the events leading up to his son's disappearance. Many did not have their eye so closely on their child at the time."

Heinrich stood at the foot of the steps to the altar. His eyes flicked between the various seated figures. Eventually his gaze stuck on Arabella and he began to talk haltingly. His large hands twisting his battered hat between them. "It … it was in the autumn, round 'bout All Hallow's, and well ..." he wiped his face, smearing the track of a tear across one cheek. He twisted his hat still further. "Tobias and me … we were going to the brook. I was just going to teach him how to lay a line ..." he swallowed thickly.

"It were right quiet out there, but I didn't think anything of it. Then this strange wind began to blow, straight through the trees it went. Didn't come from any one direction neither. Now at first I thinks Tobias must be doing it. He's got the gift see, through my Nan and all. Still, I looked at him and he was _scared_. Deep scared, asked me to make the singing man stop. I thought he was imagining the wind into voices and the like, so I just told him it were nothing more than the wind in the leaves.

"Still I started back. Since the trees were creaking mightily in the wind, but the way weren't the same as before. It wasn't like your webs Ara, begging your pardon. It was more like the trees were moving. I were more'n a mite worried. Tobias were clinging to me for dear life, and muttering somethin' fierce about how I'm not to let the trees take him. I swung him up into my arms and start running hell for leather …" Heinrich broke off, tears ran down his cheeks. They waited in silence until he had recovered enough to go on, "When I got back to Altewald … I wasn't carrying him. There were just a piece of wood. I mean, I would have sworn …"

"Thank you, Heinrich," Kaeuperman interrupted. Her sympathetic smile failed spectacularly to reach her eyes. "You may go."

Heinrich left the church, unable to bid them farewell. The tears continued to run down his face. There was silence for a few moments after he left.

"A good man, if a little too soft hearted," Kaeuperman remarked before turning first to Tom and then to Harry. "You see gentlemen, this is a prime example. The others have had similar stories. A mysterious wind. _Magic_ in the air. One second there, the next: poof! Gone. Janina, Elizabeth's granddaughter vanished while she and her parents were out picnicking. Alfred, a sweet boy, disappeared from his parent's garden at the edge of the wood while his mother was putting out the washing. Anna was pushing her little brother on a swing in her family's garden one moment, the next he was alone. There seems no connection between the disappearances, they just happen, like that! All that can be said really is that it started nine months ago."

"We investigated anyone who might have been responsible within the village immediately, but everyone appears innocent. I sent to the capital for help, but until you none came," Vanessa added, her voice mellow and soft.

"No help came? There are records of a group being sent here," said Harry, struggling to stay awake.

"If so it never arrived. The magic is … odd too. Arabella, would you explain?" Vanessa continued.

Arabella nodded, "I have done everything I can to measure and detect magic within the forest. The bell tower contains the ward-matrix. I can pinpoint so much as a _lumos_ cast within a hundred miles of here. It records all flares as well. There has been nothing …"

"I believe she has made a mistake, gentlemen perhaps you would care to test the charms you might find the fault?" Kaeuperman interrupted.

Tom glanced upwards for a second, "No mistake. Either something is masking the signature or your wards are not calibrated to detect it. Any ideas which?"

"Assuming those are the only possibilities I think both may be the case. I should be able to detect _something_ if either one were the case," Arabella answered, "the only magic I detected even today was yours. I think you will agree that something else was acting on that ridge. I suspect that I cannot detect the cloaking spells or their absence because the enchanter is using something unknown to me. I cannot detect the vibrations of even foreign magic because of the cloaking spells. I think we might be facing some kind of creature, rather than a wizard or witch ..."

"Your wild theories would have us believe that fairy tales are hunting our children. I would have you remember that the uncivilized beliefs of your brother were of a similar ilk and if he had not adhered to them as slavishly as he did …" Kaeuperman interrupted her head held high with disdain.

Tom cut her off, "Madame, am I to understand that you have no magical ability?"

"Well yes, but ..."

"Then shut up. Let those who do discuss these matters, for you have no say in them!" Tom snapped, the candles dimmed as his temper flared. Kaeuperman gave a little huff, although she sank into silence. "Now, Arabella, tell us your theory," Tom continued, his voice soft again.

"Really I have no evidence for it, beyond the vague resonance with the old tales, and the obvious power over the trees …"

"Which we have taken action against: all the trees in the village have been cut down." Kaeuperman began, her voice died away as Tom met her gaze.

Arabella gave a small cough, which might have been a laugh, and continued, "I think we might be facing a non-human opponent. Presumably some kind of forest spirit, but I can't be sure what it is. At a guess it bears some relation to an erkling, but much more powerful."

"I think that I can help you there, assuming that the creature that attacked us today and yours are the same. There is always the possibility we have two spirits with similar powers running around causing havoc," said Tom, "I had a little chat with the thing that was controlling the trees, the birds, the weather … pretty much everything out there. It seemed to have attacked us for harming the trees. Which suggests that since you've cut down your trees that it must be growing stronger, or it desires to ensure that no-one comes to your aid.

"I must confess that this entire business intrigues me. It introduced itself as the Oldest King. Does that ring any bells?"

"It might. I'd have to go through a few books back at home, but my Grandmother had a large collection on folklore. There is probably something there."

"Excellent, sensible woman your Grandmother. I learnt long ago not to forget the old ways. Harry will help you with it."

"I don't ..." Harry and Arabella began at once.

"I'm glad that's settled. I will check the wards on the town before I sleep. Would anyone offer me a bed for the night?" Tom asked pleasantly as he straightened up and began to descend from the pulpit.

"Aye. You can kip at mine. We've got an extra bed and we'd be glad to have you," Johan answered graciously, heaving himself up from his creaking chair.

"Excellent," Tom smiled and set off down the aisle. The doors swung open for him. For a moment he slipped as he left the church. His hand brushed the stone steps and he righted himself again. "Be careful out here, these steps are _terribly_ slippery," he called out as he set off towards the edge of the village. Harry frowned it had almost seemed that Tom's near fall had been oddly controlled, he shook the thought away.

"I don't have to come," Harry began as he saw Arabella stand, "I could stay here, I'm sure I'd be quite comfortable."

"With the ward matrix a staircase away? I don't think so. At least this way I can keep an eye on you," she replied grimly. They left the church, keeping as much distance as they could between one another.

* * *

The rain had stopped and the air along the road was chilly. Mist curled up around them as Harry and Arabella left the main body of the village. Harry shivered, drawing his coat tighter around himself. His breaths misted in front of him like a dragon's breath. The soft, orange glow of candle and firelight from cottage windows died away, becoming tiny dots, little earthbound stars, until they were swallowed up by the mist. Arabella walked fast, forcing Harry to ignore the pain in his leg to keep up.

At last he stopped panting, unable to continue, "Look, slow down would you? I can't keep up."

"Why should I?" She asked coldly, though she did halt, thrusting her hands into her pockets to keep them warm.

"Out of kindness? I don't know. What takes your fancy as a reason?" He snapped as his leg gave a particularly painful throb. "Look, believe that I'll go back and kill everyone in the village if you don't. It seems the sort of thing you might think of me. Just _please_ slow down."

She looked at him, Harry could almost see the cogs turning as she weighed it up. "Fine. I suppose you're more use uninjured. If you really _are_ here to help. Frederick would kill me if I ruined his handiwork anyway. Come on then, it isn't far. I'll even give you something to eat … why does that ring a bell?"

"I couldn't say. Your parent's didn't have an obsession with Pavlov did they?"

"Not that I know," she replied absently. "Oh damn. I left the groceries at the church. Ah, I'll pick it up tomorrow. Tonight will have to be rather Spartan."

"It wouldn't be the first time I've gone a bit hungry," Harry said as lightly as he could.

"You seem awfully hard to antagonise. Grandmother always said you had a temper like a volcano," Arabella remarked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"A hundred years of reflection and solitude mellow the temper. I have good reason to be even tempered where you are concerned. Anyway, I've worked with people who hated me more," Harry said calmly, starting to plod onwards again.

"And what reason would that be?"

"Guilt. Aren't the trees getting a bit close along here?" He asked, glancing towards the intertwining branches which stretched across the rapidly narrowing path.

Arabella paused, her eyes slowly widening, "I think you're right; I'd swear that one moved!"

Harry tried to spin around, drawing his wand as he did so, only to overbalance and fall painfully onto his elbow. He scrambled onto his knees only to realise that Arabella was bent double, laughing.

"You should see the look on your face!" She gasped as she continued giggling. "Don't worry. I charmed this path myself. It would be hard to find a safer place anywhere in the village."

"Very funny," he grumbled, trying to conceal his relief.

"Oh dear, that was much funnier than it ought to have been." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I needed that. Come on. We won't get much done unless we get back soon."

* * *

Tom ran his hand through the air, letting the air hum as his fingers brushed the threads of magic.

"Fascinating," he murmured. "A true Ariadne aren't you, my dear?" He brushed the wards again, making them sing. Blue pulses of light illuminated the area: dark trees loomed towards the dome of light; blades of grass, slender, serrated, the edges trimmed with a ghostly gleam in the ethereal light; folded buds; broken branches; old leaves; cold stone, caught for a moment in the unearthly glow.

"There's something not quite right though …" He muttered to himself. The net, though perfectly woven was faintly discordant. A single wrong note in a symphony of magic. "Where is your heart?"

He licked his fingertips and teased out a single, hair-thin thread of magic from a tightly woven knot of sigils, replacing it with one of his own. Feeding the thin stream of light out like a fishing line he began to follow as it tugged him towards the power source.

* * *

The kettle whistled shrilly, water vapour pouring from its spout. The kitchen was cosy. It was a small room near the centre of the old sandstone house, paved with flagstones. The house had, once, before the encroachment of the forest been a prosperous farm. A heavy, black-painted oven nestled in one corner, kept warm by a crackling, twisting bluebell flame. The walls were lined with red brick, where they were not covered with tapestries and embroidery. Arabella lifted the kettle off the hob with a green tea-towel and poured the water into a china teapot.

"Milk, sugar?" She asked as the tea brewed.

"Neither thank you," Harry said as he sat himself at the oaken kitchen table. His coat hung in the hall, and his wand was safely in Arabella's possession as a promise of good conduct. He had just finished binding the new bandage around his leg and sat back with a sigh.

The tea was a light umber as she poured it into a pair of solid mugs, running up to an old watermark. "Now we'll go through to the library in a little, but you've got to drink up your tea first. I don't allow food or drink in there."

Harry nodded, smiling to himself. "Thank you … while we wait … are there any pictures of your grandparents which I could see?" He asked, putting just the right amount of hesitation into his voice.

Arabella froze, his expression pulled at her heart strings. She clamped down on it, "I don't think that would be appropriate, do you?"

"No, sorry. Of course not … I'm sorry. It's strange seeing the world pass by while you remain, unchanging," he said, his eyes drifting over the grain of the wood.

"That is supposedly the problem with immortality," she said dryly, "if we find anything maybe I'll pull out an album or two."

Harry looked up. "Thanks, that means a lot. Immortality isn't so very bad though, at least not dying in the last hundred or so years hasn't been. You'd discover it's actually very hard to get bored, but you do miss the past. Just imagine being an old, old man with all the dreams of the days gone by; all the missing friends, too afraid to make new friends because of what you might do."

"I suppose the answer is to stop thinking of age as a thing to reach," she replied, downing the rest of the tea. "Come on. We have a long night ahead."

* * *

_Three Hours Later_

Harry sighed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, placing another book on the growing pile beside him, "Beedle the Bard doesn't say anything useful. Not unless we're dealing with Death or mysterious cooking pots."

"Well he wouldn't would he?" Arabella replied, turning over another thick, yellow page, "He's English. Why would he have anything to say about Black Forest creatures? Why don't you try that one?" She waved her hand vaguely towards a shelf.

"Which one?"

"The blue one, red book mark. Third shelf from the bottom," she murmured before returning to her book.

Harry scanned the shelf before his eyes picked out the sky blue volume.

"By the way, wash your hands after using it."

Harry eyed it suspiciously, "It doesn't bite does it?"

"Good Lord no! I wouldn't allow any books like that in here," Arabella protested.

Harry nodded and pushed back his chair, careful not to knock against the delicate crystal reading lamp balanced on the small round table he was. The library appeared to be the only room in the house which had been placed under the influence of space extension charms. The double-sided bookcases stretched not only up to the ceiling, but away to a seemingly infinite distance. Although Arabella assured him that it looped back on itself the sight rather unnerved him. The shelves were made from a soft, red-brown wood, curling brass leaves and creepers climbed over the wood-work in an imitation of autumn.

As Harry pulled the book off the shelf the red bookmark flicked out, licking him like an overly affection dog.

"Ugh, that is just wrong," Harry muttered, holding the book out at arm's length. The cover moved unnervingly under his fingers as the book mewed. "Why would you make a book like this?"

There was no answer from Arabella as he made his way back to the table. He glanced at the clock on the wall and groaned, it was approaching midnight.

"He shall be clothed in the forest … the wind will answer his call … he prey on the dreams of the young …" Arabella mumbled somewhere in the background. "Yes! I've found it!" She crowed triumphantly.

Harry looked up blinking, "Wha ..."

"The thing in the forest. I think it's the Erlking."

"I thought you already mentioned those, said they weren't powerful enough," Harry asked, confused.

"No, no. Those were erklings. This is _the_ Erlking _._ The king of Alders, the Elder King. It all fits. The upsurge in elder and alder trees; the type of magic; the targeting of children, and even his location. There's a local myth here about how the founders of the village managed to banish a wicked spirit who was hunting their children. Anyway even the name your friend gave it, it's just yet another corruption of the same name. I mean he's originally the elf-king, probably anyway, although he does seem to have an association with the trees."

"Fantastic! Does he have any weaknesses?" Harry asked, too tired for jubilance.

She scanned the page, before flipping over to the next. Her face sank, "Not that it mentions, obviously he must have done, but it doesn't say what they did to beat him."

Harry slumped back, defeated, only to sit bolt upright a moment later, "He does have at least one desire though: children. Right?"

"Well yes, but if you're going to suggest using children as bait the answer is no."

Harry licked his lips, "I think, I think I might have an idea about how to get near to him. Tell me have you ever heard of polyjuice potion?"

* * *

_Altewald, the following morning_

Morning arrived, ash grey and damp. A mist hung low over the trees surrounding the village as Harry and Arabella made their way to the house of Johan, the village doctor. The air was tinted with the faint, rain dampened scent of charred wood. The house was positioned in the centre of the village. It was a tall building of worn, grey sandstone, with high windows from which it stared down at its rather shorter neighbours.

They knocked on the door, a sharp rat-tat-tat, and waited. From within the house there came a bustling as someone startled from the breakfast table. A few moments later Frederick appeared at the door. He was pale and wan, even in the light of day, deep purple crescents hung under his eyes. His hair was lank, unwashed and unbrushed, sticking out at odd angles.

"Good morning," Frederick said, suppressing a yawn. "Are you here to see your friend? Or me?"

Arabella answered for them, "Your Dad actually, and _his_ friend," she jerked her thumb at Harry. "What is his name?"

"Tom," Harry supplied. "We'll wait out here if you could fetch them. We've got to go and pop over to Frau Kaeuperman's to _inform_ her and all about any plans, I suppose," he added, grimacing at the idea.

"You don't know?" Frederick asked, startled. "No, I don't suppose you would. She fell on the church steps last night and broke her neck. I'm afraid that she's dead."

They stood in stunned silence for a moment before Harry spoke, "Well, I guess we don't need to see her after all."

For a moment no-one moved, and then Frederick set off, back into the recesses of the house in order to find the others. Harry turned to Arabella a thought striking him. "Listen, I want to make this absolutely clear. Don't trust Tom; however bad you think I am, trust me just this once when I say that Tom is a thousand times worse, and no, you don't want to know anything more about him. Now this is important. Will you accept my protection, my promise that no harm will come to you if I can prevent it?"

"For a man who knows how little I trust his promises you seem frightfully eager to give one," Arabella said suspiciously, "why the sudden urgency?"

"Look, just please say yes, I don't have time to explain. You don't, you can't realise how important this is. It won't hurt you to say yes, it doesn't put any obligation on you, you can continue being as suspicious of me as you like. Believe that I'm going to betray you if you want to, just say yes. Please!" Harry pleaded. There were footsteps down the hall.

She looked at him bemused, weighing it up. "Fine. If it makes you happy."

He sighed in relief, "Thank you."

"Good morning," intoned a silky voice from the door. "What a _pleasure_ to see you here," Tom said. A light smile which failed to quite reach his eyes played over his lips.

Johan appeared behind him, peering over the taller man's shoulder until Tom stepped aside. Like Frederick he looked worn by the night, "Hello, what can I do for you then, Ara?"

"Well, we were wondering, since you do quite a lot of potions brewing, if you know where we could get some polyjuice potion?"

Johan's eyes widened, "Polyjuice? What do want that for?"

"I think I have an idea as to how we might find the children, but it requires it. Do you have any?" Harry asked.

Johan shook his head vehemently, "That stuff's highly regulated. I couldn't even get some of the ingredients if I wanted to. Not to mention it takes ages to brew."

"Is there anywhere we might get some?" Harry asked pleadingly, "Remember, this is for the sake of the village, and we are authorised by her Highness ..."

Johan looked uncomfortable, but at last he answered, "You'd probably be able to find some in … in a shop for adults. They're licensed to sell it. Now good day to you." He turned and strode back into the house, the door banging to behind him.

Harry frowned as Johan's words stirred up a memory. He dug through the pockets of his coat, before eventually pulling out a small phial, in which lay a single hair, and a flyer for _Melonie's Mysteries_ , "I think, that I know where we need to go. Tom, you and I are going on a shopping trip to Stuttgart. Arabella, would you ensure that this time we can apparate back here safely?"

"Do I want to know why you have that flyer in your pocket?" Arabella asked.

"Not really, it involves a rather unpleasantly pushy salesman," Harry answered simply. "Can you do that to the wards?"

"Yes, but I'll need to be by the matrix to do it. I'm only going to be able to give you a small time window."

"That's fine. Coming Tom?" Harry asked.

"And get away from here? Merlin, yes. By the way Arabella, about your wards, they are delightful, but something is corroding them," Tom said as they set off in the direction of the church.

"What? That shouldn't be possible!"

"And yet it is, I've patched them up for now, but foreign magic never mixes well with the original. Something out there was slowly dissolving them along the western edge. I think our friend in the forest isn't going to be content with just taking children for much longer. Especially not since you cut down his trees, it doesn't seem to be the type of thing he likes ..."

Shortly afterwards Harry and Tom span on the spot, vanishing almost silently.

* * *

Stuttgart was, of course as unchanged as ever. A crescent moon hung large in the pale sky, a spider's web of clouds crawling over its surface. The streets were being decorated for the goblin new year. Small figures balanced precariously on step ladders as they hung chains of many pointed stars, and savagely curved moons of silver and gold across the streets, linking from one building to the next. Harry and Tom kept close together as they circumnavigated the stalls. The lilting music of the lios-alfar lifted into the air.

Small children giggled as tiny lanterns of stained and painted glass lifted into the air, bright red candles burning within them. A flower seller handed out seeds which, as the customers took them, grew and blossomed, exploding upwards and outwards in their palms.

A pair of wizards scratched the last of a series of runes onto the wall of a side street. The cobbles shivered, shimmered and shed their stony coverings, cracking open like breaking eggs to reveal pale blue glass beneath which swiftly absorbed the rubble. The runes on the alley wall glowed gold, the light refracting through the crystals turning the street into a rainbow of purples, golds and greens.

Tom grimaced sourly as they passed a goblin peddler, his tray of goods heaped high with heavily armoured figurines. Tom folded his cloak tighter around himself as if to protect himself from some invisible pollution. "Disgusting, allowing these _creatures_ to run around like this."

Harry ignored him, flicking a coin to a child who was looking longingly at one of the models. The goblin glanced from the child to Harry, a look of disgust at the generosity crossing its features. Small, black eyes watched him beadily. Harry held its gaze for a moment before looking away, heading towards the blue and gold of the shop front of Melonie's Mysteries. Thankfully the obnoxious salesman was nowhere in sight. Behind them the goblin glanced at a poster pasted to the side of his tray, out of sight of any customers. The poster showed a green-eyed man with messy black hair and a scar on his forehead. The goblin gave a toothy grin, and the small child who had been eyeing the wares ran off to find its mother.

The shop doorbell rang shrilly, an off-key tune. The air inside the shop was heavily perfumed and filled with the **scent** of sweet incense and possibly a hint of molten chocolate. Harry gagged, nauseated, "Come on, let's get this over with. And Tom?"

"Yes," his companion replied stonily.

"You can behave in any manner you so choose. So long as no-one dies, I won't object," Harry declared, all too eager to leave the shop. They moved through the piles of goods, avoiding looking at even the first shelves, with their stock of glamour bracelets and various costumes.

A man's voice addressed them from side aisle, "Can I help you gentlemen?" The sound grated on Harry's eardrums, a nasal whine.

"Erm ..." Harry began as he turned to the speaker, who apparently felt that tattoos were much more comfortable than clothes. Harry was quite eager that the man should not step out from behind the counter, just in case his dress preferences extended below his waist too.

"Lover's balm perhaps? Or a magic lantern slide reel? We've got everything you could want."

"Polyjuice potion," Tom stated blandly, "enough doses for two people to last a day."

"Oh that's lovely, quite a marathon you've got going on there. What do you have in mind? Blonde? Brunette? Redhead? Man? Woman?" The shopkeeper turned to a series of bottles behind the counter. "We've got a very wide selection, you know. I was just saying to Elsa the other day, you know ..."

"Fresh polyjuice, not pre-set," Tom interrupted. Around him a few of the shelves rattled in a gust of wind.

The shopkeeper's face tightened, "I'm afraid I can't oblige you. That's illegal. You might get up to _anything_ , you could be _anyone_ , it's just not allowed."

Tom stepped forward, leaning on the counter slightly, "Let me explain. You will give us the pure stuff, and yes, I know you have it, I can …," his head swivelled, his tongue flicked out into the air, snake-like, "smell it."

"I'll call the authorities if you don't get out now!" The shopkeeper insisted, beginning to reach under the counter.

Tom moved in a blur. One hand grasped the man's wrist in a vice-like grip, the other took hold of his throat as he lifted the shopkeeper off the ground, almost effortlessly pinning him against the wall, forcing him onto his tip-toes. "Let me explain again. It was never a request. If you don't tell us where the polyjuice is I shall personally ensure that you learn what your liver tastes like," Tom snarled, his face inches away from the shopkeeper's, "point my companion towards it and I may let you live."

The shopkeeper stared into Tom's eyes for a brief moment before nodding. The sour scent of urine mixed with the other scents of the shop as he pointed to a thick brown door in the corner of the shop.

"Second shelf from the top," he croaked, "white bottle. It's as marked Cupid's Bow."

Harry opened the cupboard and retrieved the bottle. It was large, easily large enough to hold enough polyjuice for a couple of days. Tom smiled thinly at the man who was beginning to turn purple under Tom's grip.

"Got it, let's go," Harry said, marching forwards.

"Right," Tom let the shopkeeper drop and without a second glance left the shop.

"You know," Harry commented as they walked down the street back towards the apparation point, "we could just have shown him the writs from the princess."

"Of course, but where would the fun have been in that?"

They disappeared without a sound, vanishing as if they had never been.

* * *

_Melonie's Mysteries_

Dusk was falling over the city when Ivaldi, son of Nioavellir, and his guards entered _Melonie's Mysteries_. There twelve goblins in their hunting party. Each and every one knew enough ways to kill that they could each have slaughtered an entire village without repeating themselves. Ivaldi himself was clad in dragon hide armour, from a wyrm he had killed in his younger days. The tip off from the peddler had led them here, he hoped that it would not be for nothing.

"Can I help you?" The shopkeeper asked, running out from behind a stack of goods as he heard the doorbell jangle. The smile plastered on his face faded as he saw the goblins. "Oh, it's you lot. We don't serve your sort in here."

"We have not come to be served human," Ivaldi rasped, his lips twisting upwards in a feral grin, "we have come for information. Bind him."

Two goblins seized the proprietor as another placed a thin strip of rune encrusted metal against the door. There was a flash and a sizzle and the door sealed. They bound the man down onto the counter, steel wires digging into his flesh hard enough to break the skin as they restrained him.

Ivaldi heaved himself up onto the counter, pulling a rippling dagger from his belt and running the flowing silver over the man's chest. "Now tell me, what is your name?"

"Ivan," the shopkeeper sobbed, it was not he had realised his lucky day.

"It is pleasant to meet you Ivan. Now I want to know something and you are going to tell me ..."

"Anything, anything, just ask, I'll tell you. Please don't hurt me ..."

Ivaldi sighed and slid the dagger under the surface layer of Ivan's chest, removing a sliver of flesh. The man screamed. Humans were so weak, so pathetic. Ivaldi plucked it from the human's chest and popping it into his mouth began to chew, "You see Ivan, I'd like to think I could, but I'm just not sure that I can trust you. I'm sure that right now you'd tell me anything to get me to stop, but I'm not sure if that would be the truth. We're going to start out by persuading you how important it is to tell the truth, and then we'll get onto the big questions. Do you understand? Just nod."

Ivan nodded, tears trailing down his cheeks.

"Good, now tell me about the customer's you've had today," Ivaldi said as he slid the writhing blade under the man's fingernail. Outside no-one would hear the screams.


	12. Heroes and Villains

**Heroes and Villains**

_Arabella's House:_

The warm afternoon glow was fading into chilly dusk. Harry sat in a worn kitchen chair whose varnish had been slowly chipped away by long years of faithful service. Across the table Tom sat, his foot beating a tattoo on the black flagstones. Arabella was standing by the sink. She gazed out of the window at the gathering shadows as they leapt among the avenue of trees which led to the village; pine, ash and elder, wound away into the gloom. The sun winked below the treeline. For a while there was a blazing red ribbon of light above the trees before it faded to blue and then a deep imperial purple above.

Harry sighed, resting his head on his hand as he surveyed the board. Things were not going badly, then again they were not going well. "Your move," he reminded Tom, sitting backing in his chair.

"I know. However, this … this requires consideration," Tom replied. His eyes were fixed on the game. A hint of tension in his face revealed his frustration.

"Oh come on!" Arabella said, exasperated, "It's Risk! It's not that bloody difficult. For heaven's sake, it's virtually entirely luck!"

Harry smiled to himself. "Do not mock the ways of Risk, for it is filled with little soldiers and their bayonets are poky," Harry answered. He rolled the dice for a group of neutrals, who were unfortunate enough to stand in the way of Tom's forces as they marched across Europe.

"It has to be said it does not make a great deal of sense," Tom said, pushing his troops forward. "I mean Europe's power is vastly greater than Australia's … and yet you hold the later without difficulty! Not to mention the fact that I'm forced to use circuitous sea lanes …"

"You're just grumpy that conquering the world is harder than you thought," Harry replied, grinning gleefully as a single soldier brought Tom's vast host to a juddering halt. "Strange how fiction mirrors reality isn't it?"

Tom glanced towards Arabella, but she did not appear to have noticed. He scowled. "This game is a pointless waste of time. We should have gone to get the parents to give us the children's hair ourselves."

"I really do think it's better to let someone they trust ask permission," Harry answered, his lips twitching in amusement. "Some people might look askance at such a request."

"It's just their forms, not their bodies! It isn't as if we were going to put them in danger. We're doing them a service, for no reward, I would add," Tom said sullenly, "your turn."

"Thank you. You make a fair point. I'd imagine though that the thrill of the chase would be enough for you. The chance to get the blood flowing for once."

"It is a rubbish game though," Tom insisted.

"For goodness sake stop arguing!" Arabella interrupted, returning to the conversation. "Don't the pair of you ever do anything else? If you find it so very dull why don't you do something useful like read a book? Have you even looked in the library?"

"I have read them all," Tom replied shortly as he blew on the dice for luck.

The look of surprise which flashed across her face spoke volumes. "All of them? The library's very large. There are enough books in there for a lifetime … you can't have read them all," she said incredulously.

"I have. Why is it never a six when I roll?"

"Fine. Have it your own way. Either of you want a coffee?" She turned from the window, leaning back against the counter, brushing a loose strand of hair to the side of her face. It fell back in front of her eyes almost as soon as she moved, but it had been an attempt.

"Might I have a cup of tea?" Harry requested, marching his troop triumphantly into Kamchatka. Green soldiers formed a small circle, muskets pointing outwards. The formation was pointless, but it gave him an unaccountable feeling of confidence.

"Mmm, what sort?"

"Earl Grey, if you have any, please."

"Don't you want anything Mr Riddle?" Arabella asked, as she dug through the cupboard for tea bags.

"If you have any of those chocolate biscuits left I would be delighted," Tom said as he looked up from the game, glancing out into the red tinted dusk.

"Of course. Help yourself." She pulled a pack of biscuits from the bread bin and set them down on the table. Imperceptibly the silence deepened for a moment. "You know I don't see any good reason why it should just be you two who go in to the forest anyway …"

"While I can see the sense in only the pair of us going, particularly since you, Ma'am, are the keystone upon which the safety and wards of this town depend … I have to agree. This is an awful plan," Tom added, his voice a mellow drawl.

Harry sighed, putting the dice down, "Look, if you have a better plan …"

"Burn the forest," started Tom, his tone plain and cool.

"What if the children are still alive? Not to mention the power that would take, it would take ten thousand warlocks to burn the Black Forest without collapsing from exhaustion," Harry pointed out, with a frown.

"What about a trap on a larger scale then? It is madness to walk into danger like this without a backup plan," Tom complained.

Arabella shook her head, "He has too much power over the trees. You saw that yourself the other day. From what you say he can tell what passes among them. If you go in there with any back up we could provide he might not come for you."

"Personally I'm not sure that I have a problem with that …" Tom murmured.

Arabella pursed her lips, flicking her wand at the kettle. Steam began to rise, spiralling upwards to the kitchen ceiling.

"Look, I don't really know who you are, but why do you even think you have a say in this? You're not one of the aurors."

"Me? Oh I'm merely a humble sorcerer, with some small learning. I simply happen to be offering advice, nothing more," Tom smiled faintly, although the impression it gave was of a shadow of a smile. Shadows rarely show the truth of the thing which cast them.

Arabella looked at him, uncertainly. "There's something strange about you, though I can't put my finger on it."

They stared at each other for a moment. Harry coughed loudly, and spoke, shattering the silence, "Arabella, if you have a plan, then please tell us. You seemed fine with it last night ..."

"Last night you hadn't quite revealed how stupid it was, and I was tired enough to agree," she retorted, her expression taut.

He knew why she was frustrated, and sympathised, but still criticism of a plan that they had already agreed upon irritated him. Harry's temper flared, "I'm not a planner, alright? I admit that, but unless you have a better plan ..." He took a deep breath to calm himself and looked squarely at her, "Trust me on this. I want to stop this."

He knew it was a mistake the moment the words were out of his mouth. Her face went blank. "Don't talk to me about trust. You seem to need to ask for it a great deal. It doesn't say anything good you know," she hissed. With a flick of her wand she ended the heating charm on the kettle left the kitchen. The door slammed behind her. Harry sunk his head to the surface of the table.

Tom looked after her thoughtfully as he prised a chocolate biscuit from the pack, "She is fiery. I am glad that she is after your blood and not mine." There was a pause as he took a bite and swallowed. For an instant he hesitated, "Thank you, by the way, for not telling her who I am."

Harry's head jerked up, uncomprehendingly, but Tom did not seem to have noticed. Harry blinked in surprise, "Erm … you're welcome? I must admit it is as much in my interest as in yours. I doubt she would trust either of us if she knew." It came out sounding like a question.

"I know. Do not forget your tea. Would you mind if were to take a stroll around the garden? There are some small things I would like to discuss," Tom said, standing up.

"Sure," Harry pushed back his chair with an loud noise and poured the water into the mug before following Tom to the door. He stood aside as Tom turned back to pick up the pack of biscuits before he led the way outside.

The evening air was cool, faintly scented with flowers of spring as they closed for the night. The garden had a slightly lazy atmosphere to it. If it had been somewhat earlier it would have been perfect weather to eat outside in. The layout was precise and carefu: tall, neatly trimmed bushes and flowers bordered the main lawn which stretched away from the house towards a grove of twisted lilacs, their curling branches and broad leaves obscuring one corner. Harry took a long breath, drinking in the sweet air, refreshed after the cosy warmth of the kitchen.

"It's really quite beautiful," he remarked, forgetting his companion in the moment. The patio, where they were standing, was made of deep, red, rough bricks, surrounded with a small wall, over which crawled roses.

"Yes," Tom replied mildly, "I suppose it is."

Harry glanced at him. Tom was gazing across the lawn, a faraway look in his eyes, "Are you well?"

"Mmm, sorry? Yes, yes, quite well."

Harry tried again "You don't seem quite … well yourself."

"And what would that be normally?"

"Death, death, evil, evil … the occasional mad laugh; and a tendency to monologue. Not to mention killing, torture, fire, death … you know, the normal type of thing. Oh, and obviously a fascination with chocolate biscuits," Harry smirked at his own remarks.

Tom began to stroll down the lawn, long, slow steps without any particular aim in mind. They meandered over the trimmed, pristine grass, shaking the gathering dew from the blades. "I suppose that's not an unfair assessment. However, it does exclude my notable brilliance."

"Any chance of that brilliance coming up with a better plan?"

"No, I quite like how terrible this plan is."

"Come again? You'll be putting yourself in danger you know," Harry pointed out. He followed Tom through an archway in an old, red brick wall and into the rose garden. The wall was high; here and there green lichen marred its surface. In a few places the mortar was crumbling away, though by and large it was in good repair.

"Oh yes, but that's the thrill of it, is it not? I have been thinking on our discussion. I have been too sedentary of late. I need some spice to my life. I do not think that I need to tell you how invigorating our little sparring match with that forest spirit was. You are repelled by it, but still at your heart you are a warrior. You know the bloodlust," Tom murmured, folding his hands behind his back as he walked. His black robe was neat and pristine, its hem ran a few inches above the grass. The robe fluttered lightly at the movement. Harry wondered vaguely who kept the grass so well trimmed, indeed who tended to the garden as a whole. He found the idea of Arabella gardening strangely implausible.

"I'm not you know," Harry commented, at last, in between sips of tea, "not a warrior that is. I don't know what I am any more, but that isn't it."

"Don't you see yourself as the hero? Out to stop the terrible villain? Heroes are warriors, it's in their nature. They do the things other people don't want to. They kill the people it is necessary to kill to achieve a cleaner, better world," Tom answered. "Don't you agree?"

"Not really. A hero is someone who helps. That doesn't mean that they have to kill. Quite the opposite if anything. My heroes are the ones who tried to help others. They didn't kill, they didn't fight or maim or kill, most men and women can do those things. To call a man a hero because he is better at killing than another? That doesn't seem right. To call someone a hero because they are better at saving lives though? Without killing others to do it? That person I'll call a hero."

They turned the corner in the rose garden, following the winding track of grass between the tall, thorny, plants. Harry brushed his hands along the soft, fresh leaves, careful to avoid the barbs which ran along their stems like rows upon rows of hungry teeth.

"Have you ever heard the phrase 'Unhappy the land that is in need of heroes'? There are no heroes in a time that does not need them. They do not fit … and that which does not fit must be the villain. A hero's place is in war. It defines them … us," Tom's voice was calm, and measured.

"There are always heroes. There are new heroes made every moment. The person who gave food to the homeless for no other reason than because it seemed right. The person who protects others from scorn, even when the victim does not know it. All men and women are heroes, it just so happens that most of us don't stay heroes."

Tom's lip curled, "How wonderfully trite. It is not as if it matters in any case. In the end all heroes fall."

"You have a very bleak view of the world."

"I am not wrong. Wizards are merely the faintest sputter of a candle which is already all but spent. In the end the planet will burn. Sentient life, here at least, will wink out forever," Tom spat the words, his face contorted in something which might have been grief, or horror, or fear. He looked upwards, towards the faint, white light of the stars.

"Someday we might travel the stars ..."

"And spread the plague of humanity beyond this place? Even if we do we would simply be running from the inevitable. In the end the universe itself will fail. There will be nothing more than a thin sheen of what was to float forever in the never-ending cold."

"Immortality doesn't sound so very worthwhile considering that then?" Harry asked as they left the rose garden and wandered further away from the house. He did not receive an answer. Together they walked onwards. Harry occasionally sipped from his rapidly cooling tea. He swallowed the last mouthful of tea, bitter by now and concentrated. The tea leaves lay, wet and clumped together in the base of the cup. He glanced down, remembering old lessons in an incense filled room. The leaves might have been a pair of antlers, or then again it might have been a mountain, or something entirely different. It was impossible to tell.

"What did you bring me out here for then? I doubt it was for a romantic walk in the moonlight," Harry said at last as they stood at the edge of the garden, looking over a low, sturdy fence across a tussock covered field of grass beyond which lay the borders of the forest, dark trees reaching down with long branches.

"Hardly." Tom took a breath, "There is something coming. I can feel it, a presence at the edge of my mind. Something is look for me, and I don't know what it is …" he paused, his fingers gripping the top of the fence, clenching tight around it.

"And? What do you want from me?" Harry asked, he did not look at Tom. The leaves on the far off trees, purple and black in the faint starlight, rustled in a night-time breeze.

"I want your help. If something is powerful enough that I can feel it, and that it can break the charms I wear against scrying … it cannot be a good sign," Tom said it with an effort the words biting into the air.

 _Is that fear Tom? That's … new_ , Harry let the comment remain silent, "I can't see why you'd be worried Tom. Remember, you're only in danger from me," he chuckled softly. "Anyway, for what it's worth, if I'm there I suspect it'll be in my interests to be on your side. Fate has a way of forcing me into situations where I don't have a choice."

"Hmm, not perhaps the enthusiastic response I was hoping for. Still … thank you," Tom said, slowly.

"Tom, you seem a lot more … pleasant? I know this seems an odd question when someone starts being nicer, but is anything wrong?" Harry asked, turning round to lean upon the fence, looking across at his companion.

Tom shook himself and passed a hand across his face, "Being in close proximity to part of my soul for a prolonged period might be having some impact upon my behaviour. I seem less able to calculate the correct course of action. It is I admit disturbing, but I do not think it will impact upon my long-term efficiency."

"Do you know you're speaking like robot?"

"I am not a slave."

"That's not quite what I meant …" Harry sighed. "Never-mind, look if there's nothing else I need to get some sleep. Fighting while polyjuiced is difficult enough anyway, I really don't want to be exhausted for tomorrow." He waited for a moment for Tom to speak as the troubled expression flickered on Tom's face.

Tom spoke slowly, forcing the words out, "Times are changing Harry. This world has no place for heroes anymore."

There was no answer. Tom turned to look for the younger man, but he was gone. There were only shadows on the lawn. From the woods there came the bark of a fox, but apart from that all was still. For a little while Tom stood there, looking out at the forest on his own. He closed his eyes for a moment, his head bent, and then he turned and made his way back to the old, sandstone house. Behind him the lilac trees creaked and the small night creatures roamed.

* * *

Voldemort slept poorly, tossing and turning in the attic room which had once belonged to Arabella's brother. Around him the remnants of childhood, adolescence and manhood stood upon dressers and window ledges. Trees creaked softly outside. The wind whistled about the eaves and a mouse crept along the wainscoting. He slept on, oblivious to them all.

He sat upon a throne placed on a raised dais. The throne was made from shadows and covered in sable cloth, from it he surveyed his domain with regal contempt. A crown was upon his head. It was made from black iron and without decoration: a warlock's crown, a warlord's crown. A celebration in his honour was occurring around him. Followers and servants made of smoke and ashes cavorted and wove their way between burning pillars of blistering, green fire. He smiled in triumph, this was power. The sheer thrill of it ran through him. He exulted in the knowledge that he was above them, apart from them, a god among mortals.

He sat, a dread lord above them all … and he could not have approached them or spoken a word even had he wished to. He sat watching a feast in his honour and was utterly unable to take the least pleasure or part in it.

Then, just as the boredom became intolerable a parade passed beneath his throne: loyal followers bearing banners to proclaim his victory over Death. The procession was led by six pall-bearers carrying the coffin of Death himself, it lay open for all to see the fallen foe. Yet, as it passed he found that the coffin was empty. Plain, unyielding wood, glossy and hollow stared up at him, waiting for a body to fill it. He pulled back from the sight, clinging to his throne. The iron crown pressed down upon his head marring what little joy he still took in the celebrations. The parade passed by and he relaxed, safe again.

The pillars of fire were changing now, running with silver and gold as well as green. He stood facing them and drew his wand. No words of power came to him, no way to bend the fire to his will. He was impotent, unable to act. His followers looked to him, but where there had once been many there were now only a few. Amongst the ranks there were others he did not recognise. A wailing cry rose up from them, begging, pleading with him for help, for succour, for aid. The air shivered with the tension of a coming storm.

He looked around, and found that he was helpless. There was no-one to destroy, no enemy to vanquish. The thought of the empty coffin gnawed at him. A soft cough at his shoulder caught his attention. A man with the head of a silver serpent stood beside him. Cold, calculating eyes regarded him. The crown was heavy upon his head. He looked towards the mewling crowd for a second, their existence disgusted him. He could not fathom why he had desired their adoration. He reached up and tore the crown from his head. He cast the hated object aside as if it were a chain which had held him prisoner.

He strode away from them, leaving the crying masses behind. With each step he took his heart felt lighter. Somewhere behind him, upon the dais, the serpent-headed man had placed the crown upon his own head. Voldemort did not know where he was going, but he was free. He wandered in the chaos of nothing.

At last at the pass over a mountain ridge Voldemort found him. A figure wrapped in a cloak and cowl, leaning on a twisted staff. There was no face to be seen there as the figure raised itself and stepped towards him, blocking his path. Beyond he could see a green vale, inviting, and tranquil, even in winter life bloomed there.

STOP. The word reverberated like a gong in his mind, solid as granite, unmovable, implacable and ancient.

"Who are you to dare to stop me?" Voldemort asked, outraged.

NAME YOURSELF, the words were not a sound, they were a remoulding of reality. They were a bending of thought and purpose. They beat themselves onto the mind like the strokes of hammer on cooling steel.

"I am ..." he paused, "a pilgrim in a strange land. Stand aside."

NO.

The mountain shivered, pebbles skittered down its slopes. The sky boiled, red clouds scudded over the golden air. Tall, yellow-green grass waved to and fro around them, caught in the wind as it keened a high song around the crags. The figure stood unmoving, its black cloak and robe did not move in the wind.

"Let me pass! I demand it!" Voldemort roared at the figure, drawing his wand. The figure did not answer, it showed no sign of even having heard him.

The calm assurance unnerved him. He hesitated, unwilling to raise his wand, for a moment. What could stand against him? There were only two things to fear, the boy, and Death, but there was no reason to fear this … person.

Voldemort moved in a blur. His wand slashed through the air. It left a reeking smell of sulphur behind as a blinding, sickly-yellow light leapt towards the figure. The light wrapped around him, eating into the dark robe. After a moment, without a sound, he crumpled. Voldemort tried to smile triumphantly, but the man had not even defended himself. He suppressed the feeling of disappointment and began to march towards the pass. The air swam for a moment: the crumpled figure was standing again.

I THINK _NOT_. The words were toneless, heartless, hopeless, a statement of fact and nothing more.

"I do not lose. _Avada kedavra_ ," Voldemort snarled, unwilling to give this irritation the honour of a respectful death. The bolt of green energy shot forward, cauterising the air. The light evaporated into the ether as it hit the figure. It tilted its head, almost amused.

Voldemort lowered his wand. "What are you?" He asked softly, although he already knew the answer.

Time, rumbled the mountain. Death, murmured the winds. The figure who waited said nothing, but held out a gloved hand for him to take. Behind him the sky grew dark and black clouds rose in mountainous waves, preparing to break.

Voldemort shook his head, 'No.'

YOU CANNOT ESCAPE ME TOM RIDDLE. THE END IS COMING, AFTER THAT WE SHALL MEET.

Tom woke sweating. The sheets were twisted around him and he was forced to wrestle with them to free himself. He stood and walked to the small window. It was set in the side of the roof and rain poured against it. The cold, fresh air of night rain squeezed its way in around the glass. He sagged.

* * *

Harry was walking. He did not know where to. The ground was made from candy floss clouds, thick, springy and white as a spring lamb's wool. Around him rose soaring mountains, capped with blue-tinted snow and half mantled in a dense, indigo-leafed forest. The world lay beneath him, clear and sharp as crystal. Each village, each river, each cobblestone upon a street was visible, clear and sharp for mile upon mile. The world was silent, waiting for that first bird to sing, the first cricket to chirp, the first word to be spoken.

He walked down the mountain towards one of the villages. He clambered over mounds of stone, and circumvented old, fallen trees, around him a mist began to gather. It was thin at first, an insubstantial wisp of cloud. As he walked further though the mist grew thicker. First the mountains and then even the sun were obscured as gradually the small circle of the world shrunk further and further. Before long the visible world was no more than a dozen feet across and what he could see was filled with the looming shapes of old, strange trees and twisted branches.

Then he was there. The intervening space between wood and village had gone. The village, when he arrived, was not a cheerful place. From the mountain, in the sunlight, it had seemed bright, cheerful and alive. Now the slate roofs were dark and wet, slick with the mist. The buildings were low, their white washed walls were dull and grey in the fog. They crouched against the mountainside, burrowing their roots into the ground. The doorways were squat and heavy, dark doors filled them. The windows were made of black, oily glass which seemed intended to shut out the light rather than it let in.

Here and there were shadowy creatures, but whether they were real or merely dense fog he could not tell. At first the streets were empty, but as Harry walked between the houses figures began to emerge from the mist. Some were barely more than a darkness upon the fog; others were made of pale fire, a shifting, faint light.

He walked among them, and they paid him no heed at first. He kept his pace and walked as fast as he could, trying to pass by. He looked behind him, but the fog had closed in and they were barely visible. It was enough though. They noticed him as he turned. Their attention was not hostile, as yet, but there was a shift. They looked at him as they passed, and their faces were clearer now. He began to pick out features as he passed. Wrecked and ruined faces, scarred and torn by war, flames and death.

He forced himself to keep his pace even, but there were always more houses, more people. Behind him he thought he caught footsteps and he turned again. They came for him. Their heads twisted towards him becoming hard and real. Maimed, mutilated bodies, friends and enemies from the past came towards him. Their eyes were hard as ice and granite. He spun in a circle, but they were everywhere.

They did not attack him, but they came towards him in silence. There were dozens; no, scores; no, hundreds, and every single one of them he knew. People he had killed; people he had caused to be killed; people he had led to their deaths. They stood, shoulder to shoulder around him. The weight of their numbers pressed down upon him.

He sunk to his knees, into the mud. Stones scraped at his hands. The fog was cold around him and the dead were silent. They watched him, unmoved by his hollow, shuddering breaths. The cold stabbed into him, he curled inwards around himself. The wet, thick mud coated his cotton shirt, clamping it to his skin as he fell forwards. He twisted like an animal, screaming. None of them moved.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he looked up at red hair and brown eyes. The dream, and the pain faded.

Harry slept on, and his mouth slowly twisted upwards into a small smile. He turned over. In the room above Tom sat upon his bed listening to the night.

* * *

_The Black Forest, some miles south of Altewald:_

There were five of them walking through the forest on that morning. The day was pleasant; bright spring sunlight warmed the earth. Under the trees green light filtered down to the forest floor, and the sharp scent of pine needles filled the air. They were robed in greens, browns and greys for camouflage. They were walking, although none of them particularly enjoyed it, then again the journey was not by choice. Magic here was touchy, according to the reports.

They were supposed to be on the road, but if there had been a road here it was long gone and so they trudged through the undergrowth. The wind skittered through the trees, catching leaves here and there, carrying them like notes, passed from one school child to the next. The walkers carried on, they had a job to do. There were people they needed to bring south, to the areas of the forest where they had sway.

"We must be near to the road. Once we get there it won't be long," the leader announced, confidently as she pulled out the map and squinted at it. The others simply followed her in silence pushing out of the trees into a meadow. Blue-green grass and slim, white flowers covered the ground. A stream twisted through the meadow, slicing deep into the earth, flowing gently, slowly. Here and there clumps of trees dotted the grassy plain, groups of friends discussing private matters. There was still no sign of the road.

They leapt across the stream, one at a time. The last of them slid on mud thoug and splashed knee deep in the dark water of the stream. The others ignored him as he swore viciously and pulled himself out of the stream. The leader took out the map again. She shook her head, drawing her wand cast a 'point me' spell. The wand spun hopelessly for almost a minute. She sighed and reached into a pocket for a compass. The breeze skipped by, before they could react it plucked the map up and dropped it into the stream.

They fished it out quickly, but the paper was damp and tore when touched. The leader scowled and flicked her hand towards one of the others, a slight woman with crow black hair. The woman sighed and leapt into the air, her shape blurred and a moment later there was a magpie in her place.

The magpie spiralled upwards, higher and higher. Eventually it became merely a speck against the blue sky. A low cloud drifted across as they watched, swallowing up the magpie. When it had passed the bird was gone. They stood there for a few minutes, looking upwards, uncomprehending.

The warm spring day was no longer welcoming. The sun shone, but a chill silence spread over them. Erika, the leader, spoke up after a pause, "We carry on. Lisa will join us." She hesitated unable, despite herself to move on, and then Lisa was swooping down from the sky again. They sighed in relief.

"Which way, Lisa?" One of them, a slender, stooped man, with lank, blonde hair asked quietly as the woman landed.

"I _think_ we should continue straight forwards. We were heading towards the road anyway, it curves around this whole area. We should come to it soon enough. There was certainly an area with fewer trees some way on."

Erika led the way, plodding through the grass. Her hand was in her pocket stroking the lucky charm her mother had given her as a child: a small wooden hawk. All too soon they were under the branches of trees again, deciduous now. Though here and there amid the birches, alders and elders there were larches too. Birds were singing and they could feel their spirits lifting. They trudged through the leaf mould faster now. Golden sunlight shone between the leaves.

The lank haired man coughed awkwardly, "Erm, hold up for a moment Erika, um, nature calls ..."

She nodded and sighed, "Hurry up then, and don't go too far."

"I won't," he promised, and set off to stand behind a nearby oak. The edge of his coat was visible still around the side of the tree.

The other four stood still, facing outwards. Erika twisted her head around, something was nudging at the back of her mind. "Did you see that?"

"What?" Ralf, a short, dark haired man, grunted, looking up at her.

She glanced down at him, meeting his mismatched gaze. "The trees, I could have sworn that they moved …" She turned, calling out to the blonde haired man, "Simon! Come on, hurry up!"

There was no reply. She huffed and strode towards the oak. As she came around the tree she reached out to the coat, prepared to drag Simon back to the main group. Her hand closed on the leather of the coat, and it crumpled under her fingers, empty, falling from the branch on which it had been hanging.

She ran back to the others, the fear catching in her throat. "Simon," she panted, her breathing short from fear, "he's not there … gone ..."

The others looked at her blankly. The moment lasted a few seconds, then Lisa leapt into the air again. Her clothes shifted and twisted into feathers. She fluttered upwards beyond the leafy branches, too fast for Erika to stop her. The three of them waited.

A single feather dropped through the canopy. Erika knelt, picking up the long, black feather, blood smeared on her fingers, thick, and dark, deep red. She bowed her head, "I think … I think Lisa will not be returning to us."

The Ralf and Maria were silent, concentrating on protecting themselves. They had drawn their wands and were turning in a slow circle, guarding one another's backs. Erika joined them, her wand ready in her hand. The trees were closer together now, almost a cage. The branches were an interwoven net; the tree trunks were a wall of thick, heavy bars.

There was, however, a gap in one direction: a gateway, between the trees which arched together. From that direction came a figure. He was tall and thin, robed in a cloak of faded leaves and moss. Green, bark-like skin surrounded black, stony eyes, and a tangled net of Old Man's Beard and ivy fell from his chin.

A curse flew from Ralf's wand, but a root leapt from the earth, intercepting the spell. The root curled inwards, its outline flickering before fading into nothing. A knotty vine leapt from the figure's hand, moving faster than a crossbow bolt. Ralf's wand was knocked from his hand as the wooden spike stabbed through his breastbone, shattered his spine and exploded out of his back. Blood and shards of bone splattered over them. The vine retracted and struck again.

Erika raised her wand and a blue dome of light expanded outwards. The vine struck against the dome, again and again, green and gold sparks exploded as the two connected. Her shield faltered under the blows and she pushed Maria to the side, diving out of the way as the vine surged past like a harpoon.

Maria snapped out a curse and red flames leapt towards the tall, unearthly figure. The forest floor swept upwards and swallowed the flames, blackening and hardening before it collapsed into dust. The creature swept his long, taloned hand through the air and leaves flew from the trees, rushing towards the two women. They sliced Maria's skin, drawing thin lines of blood, tearing her clothes. She raised her hand to protect her eyes, as she flourished her wand. A cone of fire erupted from the tip incinerating the leaves before they could reach her.

Erika moved forward, taking advantage of the creature's distraction, and launched a series of blasting curses. Blood red, blazing green and searing purple curses shot towards him. At the last moment he turned and twisted, vanishing in a flutter of leaves. The curses smashed into the trees, crushing the wood into splinters. Silence settled around them.

Erika and Maria turned, watching for any sign of the attacker. There was nothing, only leaves drifting to and fro in the breeze. Erika took a slow breath, steadying her nerves. "Maria, keep your eyes peeled. There's enough life left in Ralf to summon something. Don't let it stop me."

She knelt by Ralf's body and dipped two fingers into his blood. She drew a symbol upon his head, the shape shifted and slithered over his skin like a serpent. She began to chant. Pressure built in the clearing like the feeling of an oncoming storm. The sunlight dimmed. She closed her eyes in concentration and began to chant faster. A breeze stirred the leaves. There was a sound like tearing paper from the air in-front of her. Maria gave a small gasp, and someone sighed.

 _You know_ , a voice remarked in her mind. _That really isn't the best way to go about summoning a daemon. All I need to do is this … and all that hard work is for nothing_. A hand knocked her wand from her hand and then wooden fingers grabbed her throat and lifted her upwards until she was hanging above the ground. She grabbed onto the arm, struggling to relieve the pressure. Her eyes opened and she stared into the creature's face.

"Who are you?" She croaked, her legs flailing for some sort of support.

 _I am the Oldest King, I am the guardian of these woods. Woods you have profaned_ , he turned his head to the side, looking at her curiously. _I wonder, do you even know the damage you have done?_

The blood pounded in her head, and she could feel pain building behind her eyes. The sunlight was shining down into the glade again, but black spots were spreading over her sight.

 _I think the time has come to teach you a lesson. It is a pity that there is only one of you left here, I was too eager. Never mind though … I have plenty of time for you in any case_. He lifted his hand and brought two taloned fingers to her eyes. She screamed, kicking at him desperately. Her legs soon stopped kicking, but the screaming went on.

He finished it before long, driving his fist into her chest, crushing her heart in his hand. From the north the trees had sent news, and there was something he needed to see to. Finally things were coming together. His flesh melted into leaves and Erika's body slumped to the forest floor. The trees moved forward imperceptibly, feeding their roots upon the bodies.

* * *

_The Forest around Altewald:_

The two boys carrying backpacks who were walking through the wood were impossibly identical, even their fingerprints would have been the same. They were short with fair, fine, hair like sunlight, and identical blue eyes. They were at least dressed differently, one wore brown corduroy trousers and a brilliant yellow jumper with a purple sun in the middle; the other wore dark green.

There was also a certain difference in their expressions, the one dressed in green was scowling, whilst the other frowned in concentration. The former kicked at the ground as they walked, scuffing his shoes along.

"This is degrading. I cannot believe that I agreed to this ..."

"Well you did, and you can stop whining Tom. Of for goodness sake, will you please act your age?"

"I am acting my age. Oh, do not look at me like that. Fine, how does a child behave?"

Harry frowned, "Er … I don't really know …"

"Wonderful."

"Perhaps we should at least be quiet then? For once the trees really do have ears," Harry pointed out, unconsciously rubbing his blonde hair so that it stuck out every which way. It was strange to be in a child's body again. He had ceased to stumble with each step, but the easy, casual grace which he had developed was for the moment gone.

Tom's anger was, Harry suspected, somewhat rooted in his own sudden loss of control. The man's pride did not deal well with indignity. Nor did it help that at least for Harry his magic was muted. The combination of a foreign body, and more seriously a foreign body which was not well accustomed to magic, left him feeling weak.

"So," Tom sneered, breaking through Harry's thoughts, "what are we going to do now? Shall we just walk along and hope for something to happen, or shall we just wait … and hope for something to happen."

Harry ignored the question, pushing through the bracken, ignoring the sticky heat which surrounded the plants. "Do you think it was wise to leave Richard behind in the village? Unsupervised?"

"Wise? No, probably not, but our dear Thorbecombe seems set on following us. Slaughtering a village seems unlikely to suit him, for now," Tom answered, following where Harry had beaten down the bushes He pushed aside the broken fronds with exaggerated care, a small sneer of distaste upon his boyish features.

"I hope you're right," Harry said as he hopped over a thick, fallen branch. "I can't work out exactly what he's up to. He's fine as a fighter, but he can't measure up to us. Malfoy must have known it too …"

"In which case he was not sent to fight us," Tom replied.

"Then do you have any idea what he was sent for? You seemed to know about him while we were on the train. Anything of use in that head of yours?" The trees creaked in a strong gust of wind which blew from the south.

"The reports of his exploits were … disappointingly brief, but I know a little," Tom stated slowly. He came to a stop, sitting down on a sheared off tree-stump, scraping the moss off part of it, leaving the damp, wet wood beneath.

Harry looked at him curiously, and halted, "You read about him in the newspapers didn't you?" He did not wait for Tom to answer. "Oh that's brilliant. The Dark Lord, finding out about the heroes of the day through the press … that is a thing of beauty."

"Anyone may read the newspaper, and I … I am no longer a Dark Lord, nor for that matter is he much of a hero," Tom replied, his tone sharp. "He was commended, effectively for his ability to kill, during the Jersey uprising. However, that was only a duel in which he dealt with three of the rebels, none of whom were particularly highly trained. He is somewhat more effective as a leader, he led a reconnaissance unit, and managed to arrange an ambush which crushed one of the larger rebel forces … apart from that he is simply a well-trained auror with a respectable number of years under his belt."

Harry nodded, the answer was not unexpected, but it gave him little warning as to what the danger Richard presented would eventually be. That Richard would be a danger was, he believed, almost certain. Malfoy would not have sent a man who could pose a threat, probably. He sighed, air whistling through his nostrils, discontent and unsatisfied with his lack of knowledge.

"You know, if we manage to defeat this Erlking," Tom looked at his watch, a small bright blue thing with cartoonish hands, "within the next few hours, how about we go and get lunch somewhere and then just leave Richard behind. I'm sure that we can deal quickly with whatever is going on in the south quickly and quietly without him, and then we can go our separate ways."

"You don't have to hang around, though I thought all of this at least intrigued you. I can't leave though, I have duty," Harry answered. He had given up trying to pretend to be a child, maybe the physical appearance would be enough.

"I cannot leave if you do not. I am not going to give Death a chance to sneak up upon me by leaving you vulnerable and alone," said Tom, his voice bland and sleek as a slate, far, far older than should have been possible for that young body.

Harry looked at him then. The man was an enigma, the longer he stayed around him the less he understood him. Yet, in so many ways he was as simple as anyone could be: pure, unadulterated selfishness, mixed with boredom; there was something frighteningly familiar in that. He stretched, shaking aside the thoughts.

"Come on, let's get on. Perhaps if we start running around a bit more he'll notice something," Harry said, taking a mouthful of liquid from an opaque bottle which he had removed from his bag. He shuddered, as the feeling of being plunged into ice cold water washed over him, followed by a sudden surge of static. His hair stood up for a second before sinking back down.

"If he hasn't already."

"Sorry, what?"

"Haven't you noticed? The birds have stopped singing, they all flew away a minute or two ago. The wind's died too," Tom's voice was cool and calm, any fear had been careful cut away.

Harry stood and walked forwards, trying to suggest that he was nothing more than a child out for a wander. He picked up a stick, swinging it at a patch of nettles, slicing the heads from them. He glanced nonchalantly from side to side.

 _You know_ , said a voice inside his mind, _this was a really, really bad idea_.

Harry spun around, looking for the speaker. Tom, it seemed had not heard a thing, he was standing a look of boredom etched on his face. There was something in his pose which suggested he might be able to leap into action in a second.

"Did you hear that?" He asked.

Tom shook his head, but drew his wand, to all appearances nothing more than a child playing with a favourite toy. Harry made to drop the stick, but it stuck to his hand. The wood spread like treacle. He grabbed at it with his other hand, trying to pull it off, but as he did so the stick clung to that hand too, wrapping itself around it. It twined up his arms, with lightning speed locking his hands in front of him, trapping them.

"Tom!" He shouted, but too late. The Erl-King was there.

This time when he spoke the words were clear to hear for both of them. _Did you really think I would not know you for what you were? I devour the dreams of childhood. I could have smelt that you were adults from a hundred leagues away._

Tom struck with all the speed he could muster. Tongues of flame leapt from the air, the earth erupted, and the air whirled in localised tornado of power. The spells struck almost simultaneously and the Erlking's body exploded, burnt and was torn apart all at once. Blazing twigs fell to the earth, a single, cracked black pebble rolled along the ground.

"Well that was disappointingly easy," Tom remarked steadily. He was pale though, the effort of channelling the magic through the foreign body was plain.

 _That was_ , the voice paused in consideration for a moment, _pathetic_. _Would you like another go?_ A wind rustled the trees, bright leaves of elder and alder, dotted with small white flowers swept from the trees. They knitted together into a patchwork man of leaves, his craggy smile opened wide to reveal a gaping chasm of darkness.

The blood drained from Tom's features and he collapsed, crumpling to the ground in a small heap. The Erl-King looked at him bemused, almost disappointed.

 _That_ , it muttered softly, _has never happened before_. It waved an arm and vines wrapped around Tom, binding him tightly. It held his wand for a moment before it sunk into the leaves of its arm, vanishing beneath the surface.

Harry wracked his brain for something to do, but he was stumped. With his arms bound he was helpless, and he had never really mastered any wandless magic which would have been of use. He pulled as hard as he could at the wooden handcuffs, but they did not yield. Well, where force fails … was it supposed to be that way round?

"Well, I don't suppose you feel like letting us go do you?" Harry asked, blithely ignoring the fay creature's look of amusement.

_No, and you may as well give up upon escaping._

"How about just not killing us then?" Harry suggested, trying to back away from it.

 _I am not going to kill you_. Its voice was gentle now, a brook in summertime babbling through the woods.

"Wonderful, that's really great … erm, if you aren't going to kill us, and you're not going to let us go … what are you going to do?" Harry asked, giving up on the attempts to escape and sitting down instead, looking up at it. In many ways it was far from the most terrifying creature he had ever seen; it did not, for instance carry with it a dementor's aura of the unnatural. Indeed, if anything it was more than natural, supernatural. The fear which pooled in his stomach was the fear a man feels when he realises that he is face to face with the wild, when he turns a corner and meets a bear or a wolf. It was, without a doubt, fear, but it was natural.

It gave him a long, deep look. It made a strange noise, like cracking twigs, which it took him a moment or two to realise was laughter. _I feed upon the dreams of children, but tell me, Never-Dying Lord, what do you think that the children eat?_


	13. Promises

**Promises**

The room was dark, very dark. It was the soft, musty darkness of the places beneath the earth. The air was warm and stuffy. Beneath the moist warmth though there was the damp chill of old, cold earth.

Harry regained consciousness slowly. He was sitting upright and, he realised after a moment, largely immobile. His neck ached from cramp and the after effects of worn off polyjuice potion. The pain forced him awake and he groaned. The thick, sour taste of sleep in his mouth filled his mouth and he swallowed with a grimace. He twisted his neck, trying ineffectually to loosen the knotted muscles, as he took in his surroundings.

He took a few deep breaths and assessed the situation. The outlook did not look particularly bright. A few hard jerks with his arms proved that whatever was binding them was stringy and too tough to snap. A quick experiment proved that the same was true for the bonds on his legs. He leaned back; the back of the seat was rough and was moulded into thick vertical ridges which intertwined with one another unevenly and uncomfortably. It was at least a relief that the shrinking charm on the clothes had at least worn off as planned.

"Tom?" He asked quietly, unsure what else might be around him. There was a groan to his right. Harry twisted his arm, the bonds cut into his flesh. After a few moments of wriggling his palm was upturned. His fingers fumbled against each other, until with a snap of finger and thumb a pale globe of light flickered into life over his palm. He blinked a few times; the room was a dull blur, his glasses had predictably _not_ been placed on his face. Harry sighed. He squinted over his shoulder. In the dim light he could make out a blurry figure in green slumped on a seat made from knotted mass of roots. The seat was almost throne-like and curved around and under its prisoner, binding him.

"Tom!" Harry called again, louder this time. Tom pulled himself upright in the seat, swaying slightly as he did so.

"I have," Tom declared, with the careful clarity and slow deliberation of the drunk and the recently concussed, "a splitting headache. Did a dragon land on me?"

"No, but I think you may have hit your head on the way," Harry said, returning to attempting to wriggle free; the bonds stubbornly refused to loosen. "Can you move at all?"

"At the moment I am a little preoccupied with the question of whether my skull is in one piece. Although, I suppose the answer to your question _is_ connected, unfortunately: I don't seem able to actually use my hands to check …" Tom grunted. With a snarl of frustration he wrenched uselessly at the thin roots which bound him to the chair. "Can _you_ do anything more useful than conjuring fairy lights?"

"Not really. I could try, but this type of magic isn't my forte, and I'd like to keep my arms," Harry replied as he tried to ease his hands out from under the cords. The roots on the arm rests flowed over his forearm. They snapped shut around, forcing his arm into immobility. "Damn."

"Something the matter?"

"Not, really, just a bit more stuck than I thought I was. Don't try too hard to escape ..."

"Why?" There was the creak of shifting wood. "Ah. You could have been a bit more explicit."

"Sorry." Harry slumped backwards again. The roots behind his back dug into him painfully. He twisted as much as he could, trying to find a more comfortable position. After an ineffectual struggle he gave up. There was the unpleasant sensation of liquid trickling over his wrist, though whether it was blood or sweat he could not tell. "Have you got any tricks up your sleeve? Preferably not literally. I don't suppose they'd be much use if they were _actually_ up there at the moment ..."

"No. And Harry ..."

"Yes?" Harry asked.

"Shut up, I'm trying to think."

"Don't strain yourself," Harry muttered, but either Tom had not heard him or he ignored the comment. They fell silent. The sound of shallow breathing filled the small, earthy room. Harry let the ball of light wink out, trying to ignore the sharp stabs of pain it had left in his forehead. He settled down with a sigh. The silence dragged on. Far away the muffled sounds of small feet running over bare stone floors could be heard.

Harry drummed the fingers of his left hand against the smooth curve of the thick root which served as an arm rest. He started counting the seconds, _one, two, three, four … ninety-eight, twenty, twenty-one. Damn._ He gave up.

Tom seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion. "I don't know if you can hear me," he announced, presumably addressing their captor, "but this is exceptionally boring and I've got things I'd like to get on with." There was, sadly, no answer. Silence fell again.

"So …" Harry began, letting the word hang in the air as he struggled for something to say. "How's your wandless magic?"

"Close to perfect," Tom's voice had the clipped, curt edge of frustration.

"Of course, and so the reason you haven't escaped is …?" Sometimes, Harry reflected provoking Tom was an end in itself.

"I said it's 'close to perfect', not perfect," Tom snapped, "I don't have the room to manoeuvre. I cannot get a good angle on these blasted bonds!" There was a flash of light, and the smell of sulphur.

"Any luck?" Harry asked whilst the splashes of light vanished from his vision.

"No," came the sullen reply.

"How about whistling?"

"Why on earth would I want to whistle at this particular moment? If you dare say a word about keeping our spirits up I'll rip your tongue out when we get out of this."

"Nice to see you're confident. Don't worry, I don't feel like a nice round of 'Kumbaya my Lord' just yet. I just thought I remembered something a bunch of sorcerer-monks somewhere on a mountain who could do amazing magic by whistling. I presumed you would have heard about it if it existed," Harry remarked, as he closed his eyes in the hope that they might adjust to the darkness faster.

"I think you are probably remembering an advert from the 2000s. There were whistling monks in that," Tom sighed, "it was one of Malfoy's sponsored attempts at international 'integration'."

"Damn, it was a good story too. I liked the idea of a bunch of monks just living on top of a mountain practising whistling. It'd be just the sort of thing you'd try to go and learn," said Harry wistfully. "Do you think our host will be by to gloat soon?"

"I can promise you that there are no such monks; no such bloody minded, stupid, stick in the mud, secretive monks … Why would he come by to gloat?" He hesitated, "Actually, come to that, why are we still alive?"

Harry raised an eyebrow, but in the darkness it went unnoticed. "Apart from the fact that people like to gloat? You of all people should understand that. You might even bond over it. He said something about needing to feed to children … oh but that was _after_ you fainted," he added. "Anyway, if he actually wanted to kill us I would have thought he'd have done it. This is just a waiting game."

The silence from his companion was decidedly frosty. Harry bit his lip, restraining the desire to giggle. "I did not faint. I simply … miscalculated the magic that that body could handle … and passed out," Tom insisted primly.

"I've seen people collapse from magical exhaustion. For Pete's sake, I've done it! That wasn't it. _That_ was fainting. Plain and simple," Harry replied, smirking.

Tom said nothing, choosing dignified silence. Exactly what marks a dignified silence out from an injured silence or an undignified silence is, however, hard to say.

"Cat got your tongue? I never thought I'd see the day. All those speeches, all those long drawn out explanations of why you wanted to kill someone this time and you stop talking out of embarrassment? Remarkable," Harry sighed, the fun had gone out of it. "Look, Tom, it's not important, I've fainted before. In any case I don't think that we're in much danger; immediate danger of being eaten that is. What do you think?"

"If I beg them to eat you first do you think they'll listen?" Tom asked dryly.

"Well … you _could_ I suppose. We could ask if you like … still it's not as if we're getting any fatter though. How many children do you think you could fend off like this?" Harry said. He decided that his eyes had probably adjusted to the darkness as much as they could and opened them. The only conclusion that he managed to draw from it that it was very, very dark. "You know, it's very dark," he said.

"Well done Watson, well done. If I could I'd clap."

"Sherlock Holmes. I didn't know you read that sort of thing," Harry commented.

"Not all the achievements of muggles are worthless. Given the population size of the wizarding world there really isn't enough wizard fiction to entertain anyone for more than a couple of decades," Tom said, pausing for a second before admitting, "I refuse to read the bodice busters at the back of Flourish and Blotts in any case."

"You are full of surprises today. Next you'll be telling me that while discovering a passion for muggle literature you fell in love with _Pride and Prejudice_ ," Harry answered, voice dripping with sarcasm. He licked his lips. His head was pounding fiercely and he leaned it back against the seat, shutting his eyes again.

"My, my, you could make a comedian yet. Shall I book you a performance?"

"Is it just me Tom, or are you a little testy today? Being captured not something you're used to? My advice is to sit back and enjoy the break, we'll probably be left to sweat it out for a while yet."

"I don't have time for your childishness," Tom sighed, "now shut up, you're using the air in here up. I happen to need it." There was a pause. "Speaking of childishness, how many of those supposedly cannibalistic children do you think _you_ could take on right now?"

"Well if they were polite enough to put their throat by my mouth I might just about manage one, if I was lucky," Harry murmured.

"I think you've got your chance to find out."

A gust of fresh air swept over Harry's face and the scent of fresh leaves, wet wood and the forest filled the room. He cracked open an eye, a door had opened in the far wall. A green luminescence filter through and framed against it stood a tall figure, surrounded by children, silhouetted against the light. The figure's head was crowned with curling twists of antler and a circlet of oak leaves.

_Greetings, little lordlings_ , the Erlking said. _I hope you have not been too bored._

Harry and Tom exchanged a glance before turning back to him. Tom favoured the tall figure with a long, cool look, "You know the room service here is seriously sub par."

"By the way," Harry added, "the melodrama isn't really helping. If you wanted to talk all you had to do was ask. We're very, very good at talking."

"Excellent in fact. I won prizes while at school you know."

"And I'm just known for never knowing when to stop talking," Harry admitted with a decent attempt at being shamefaced.

_Are you trying to irritate me?_ Their captor asked, bemused, _It will not do you any good._

"Of course we are. Is it working?" Harry asked politely.

_I simply came to lead the children to you. They_ do _need to feed, do you not my little ones?_

"Yes," the children chorused together. Sixteen high, young voices almost in sync with one another. The luminescence had spread, flowing out from the doorway so that now it covered half the room. The eyes of the children were glowing with the strange, flickering, green light.

"So they really are alive?" Harry asked, surprised, "I didn't expect that, if I'm honest."

_Of course they are. I am a being of creation, not death,_ the Erlking replied, it sounded offended. _Trees, flowers, children, they are life. I live through them. Blood can help, but death … death is a terrible thing is it not? Death walks with the demon summoners of the south, not with me. One cannot feed on the hopes and dreams of the dead._

The children were edging forward, as if hoping to sneak biscuits from a distracted parent. Harry tried to pull subtly at the bonds on the chair. In the corner of his eye he could see Tom flexing his fingers, prepared to do what magic he could before the children reached him.

_Stop that._ The children halted in their tracks, scolded.

"I would have to agree with you, death is a terrible thing," Tom said, slowly, "the question is always what can we do for you though, to prevent our deaths? We are all intelligent beings here, we can come to an arrangement."

The Erlking tilted its head, golden-green eyes glowing in the dark sockets of its skull. _Now why do you think I would want something?_

Tom arched his back, settling into the seat as if it were the most comfortable thing in the world. " _Everyone_ wants something," he said with a smile, "and I think I happen to be the person you need."

_What can you give me? Why do you think I want anything, I am not human. I have walked these woods for years beyond counting, and I shall walk them still when you are no more than dust on the wind_ , it waved its hand, long, wooden fingers drifting through the air. _Your time is ending_. The Erlking took a step forward. The children parted around it. It bent towards Tom, its long robe of spring leaves rustling.

Tom stared calmly up into its face, Harry could see the thrill of it running through him. This was the sort of moment the older man lived for. "What can I give you? I could give you _anything._ If I wanted I could wrap this forest in charms so complex that it will become lost to the mists of time. _You_ want something in particular though, _you_ are talking to me. If you truly needed nothing you could have killed me. It would have been wise: I am a terrible enemy. Yet you decided to talk … so you want to ask for something," he smiled. His tongue ran over his teeth, cat-like. "Do tell me what it is."

Harry held his breath, the Erlking was considering them. It moved with a strange insectile grace as it examined first Tom and then Harry. _It seems I have not dealt with humans in too long … I forget sometimes that you can reason … Children, leave us._ The children shuffled away, slowly, casting longing looks back towards the captives. Harry gave a silent sigh of relief. _Perhaps there is something that you can do for me …_

Harry caught Tom's slight hand movement towards him. "You can't be serious Tom. There's no way we can help this … this thing! We can't trust it. It's just playing some kind of game with us," he protested as convincingly as he could.

"For the sake of my sanity will you stop using that stupid name!" Tom snapped, the Erlking's attention whipped back and forth between them, confused by the sudden shift in topic.

_What …?_

"Really, Tom is a stupid name? At least its not a bad anagram, I mean what were you thinking? What was it you said? 'A name I knew all wizards would come to fear'. That's just ridiculously melodramatic," Harry said, his voice growing louder and louder as he spoke.

_Listen!_ The Erlking ordered, straightening up.

"I wanted to take over the world! When was the last time you heard of someone called Tom taking over the world?" Tom protested, ignoring the Erlking.

"Who wants to take over the world? Why would anyone want that?" Harry asked, he turned to the Erlking, "Do you want to rule the world?"

_No. Now will you just …_

"I wanted to make it better. Now be quiet. Let those of us who can actually _do_ things talk. You were saying?" Tom addressed the Erl-king as Harry fell silent. It would be a mistake to presume that an ancient creature of terrible power can always control a social situation, and even a man who is bound to a chair can rob their captor of control, if they know what to do.

_You will …_ it hesitated, unsure as to what it had wanted, _you will deliver a message to the village. If you can think so can they. Let them know that they have three choices. They may leave the forest, never to return; they may stay and die, or they may pay a tribute of their sons and daughters. Do you understand?_

"Of _course_ I understand," Tom's voice was languid and bored, "you may spare us the death threats too. They are tiresome. Just return our belongings and we can get this whole, unpleasant business over with."

It was the Erlking's turn to smile. The smile was a feral, savage thing, delight and feroicity mixed in equal measure. _Do not worry. I never threaten. I only do. First though, if you go then he,_ it gestured to Harry, _stays here, as insurance._

Tom shook his head. "No, not happening. You have obviously encountered far too few humans. Our memories are very fragile. I'll need him with me to make sure that I remember the message. Not to mention that you're presuming that I care enough about him to bother if he dies or not."

The Erl-king regarded him, its face blank. _Humans_ , it murmured, _you are such strange creatures, filled with so much hatred. I do not believe that you are speaking the truth, but you_ are _filled with hatred and it fills your mind like poison._

"Then I shall not go anywhere. You cannot break the wards on that place or you would have done so already. They are virtually impenetrable. Those points which you have tried to wear away at have been repaired, I did it myself. If you want them gone your only hope is to let us go," Tom argued.

_Very well, he shall go with you,_ the Erlking conceded easily, shrugging. _It hardly matters. However, I shall have my insurance … if you deliver my message you will not die. If you fail … well do not fail. Do you accept?_

They looked at each other and nodded. It stepped forward and pressed one long finger into the back of Tom's left hand, and a second onto Harry's right. A tiny thorn like seed lodged in their flesh and the Erlking stepped back. For a few moments nothing happened, then the seeds sprung into life the wood shivering and growing, latching onto their skin. They spread fast curling into a twisting, raised, wooden triskelion the colour of spring leaves, about an inch in diameter, spiralling arms curving outwards.

"What … what is this?" Harry asked as the pain subsided. He glanced down at it, the back of his hand was swollen and red around the wood. The tiny roots buried in his flesh were still.

_It is my insurance. If you do not return to the village by sunset today and deliver the message then it will spread through your veins and kill you. Do not attempt to root it out. It is a channel for my magic … I do not believe you would enjoy the consequences._

"Right, now would you like to let us go?" Harry asked, "Only, I don't really want to be out after sunset …" Tom rolled his eyes, but let the comment slide.

_Of course,_ it smiled again, _in the twinkling of an eye. You will find your belongings where you left them._ The air pulsed with green light. Mist rose from the floor of the chamber and surrounding them. The Erlking was visible for a few moments, until even his eyes were shrouded by the heavy fog. The roots which bound them uncoiled and shrank away. A storm of leaves whirled about them and they were standing in a clearing in the forest, not too far away lay a pair of backpacks. A handful of leaves drifted to and fro on the breeze about them, slowly sinking to the earth. The sun lay two fingers widths above the horizon of the treeline.

Tom and Harry looked about them, there was no sign of their erstwhile captor. They stood silently for a moment considering the situation before picking up their backpacks and fallen wands. Tom was the first to speak, "I do not, of course, mean to criticise, but that was an incredibly poor plan."

Harry nodded, there was not much he could do but agree with that assessment. "Still, at least we're out of his clutches now. It was too easy wasn't it?"

"If I had done that it would have been a demonstration of power. I would intend that the villagers should be intended to be scared, overawed and provoked into striking quickly to try and defeat him before he overwhelmed them," Tom replied coolly, setting off through the trees. His wand guided him towards Altewald. The trees parting politely for him. "It was clumsily done, but what can you expect, he isn't human after all."

"And are we going to try and take him down fast?"

"No, we tell them what he said and then try and get out of here. We can tell the princess about him if you're really bothered, then we'll out the main problem in the south."

"They aren't going to want to abandon their children," Harry pointed out.

Tom shrugged, "That is hardly my problem. If they are too stupid to take their chance while they can then that is their own fault. Sooner or later he will find a way through the wards. Immortals tend to have patience on their side. How far do you reckon it is to the village?"

"Probably a couple of miles," Harry said. He hesitated for a moment, "Tom, I'm not going to leave them to face this alone …" his voice trailed off as he and Tom both registered the position of the sun and began to sprint. Plants leapt out of their way as they dashed towards the village.

Far away beneath a hollow hill the Erlking smiled it was, all things considered, a very human smile.

* * *

Footsteps broke the silence of the twisted wood. The sounds of twigs snapping and leaves rustling spread through the curling tees which swarmed up the sides of the Carpathians. High above the jagged, grey teeth of the mountains split the sky line, tearing at the clouds. Lichen clung to the trees, turning them into ancient, creaking men. They whispered to one another leaning forwards, crowding together, to hear as their crooked limbs swaying in the wind. The clouds ghosted past high above. Occasionally one, lower than the rest, would drift through the trees. The damp misty clouds flecked the green and turquoise growths and fungi with droplets of sparkling water. Hulking beech trees, masked with dark green moss, intermingled with the out runners of the great forests of sliver fir and bluish spruce as they crawled downwards from the heights.

The hard leather of Mustaphar's boot sunk into a patch of dark mud, thick with leaf mould. He frowned and with a squelch pulled his foot free, before trudging on up the mountain. He was almost oblivious to the world around him, although a certain contentment was running through him. It felt safe here, he could have been back in his own time. The rushing steel and roaring engines of the world had not touched these places. It was almost enough to make him consider remaining here in the peace and quiet, but he had a task to do.

He did not bother to try the scrying spell. It had been behaving strangely as he moved closer and closer to his prize, but the direction had been clear: west. He had not walked these mountains before, and even the texture of the magic in the air was different, the difference between rough wool and silk. He could almost smell it, taste it on the tip of his tongue, something between petrichor and wood smoke.

Stepping over a fallen, rotting log he pushed through a thicket only to find the edge of a precipice. Short, goat-nibbled grass stretched forward for a few feet before dropping away to sparse woodland. The sun was dropping away into the west where the clouds petered out into a burning sky. Tongues of flame licked along the underside of the clouds until it seemed as if the heavens were alight. He stood looking out across the rolling hills. They were dotted with woods, lakes and even a village, where houses with matching red roofs and white washed walls formed a tight, protective circle. High upon a crag a few miles away lay a castle. It was made of dull, rough rock raised on high and loomed, menacingly over the landscape.

A merlin swooped by on the breeze as it scanned the scattered trees and bristling grass for prey. It fluttered on the up drafts, blue-grey feathers almost black as they were silhouetted by the sunlight. Mustaphar raised his head and gave a single, long, loud screech; the noise hung in the air, clear as a bell. The merlin swerved in its flight and swooped down to him, landing on the proffered vambrace. He whispered to it in low, quiet tones as he fished a scrap of dried and salted meat from a pouch at his belt and gave it to the bird. After a moment's thought it blinked at him with fierce, yellow rimmed eyes and took flight, it spiralled upwards slowly, leading him down into the valley and towards the village.

The town was not quite what he had expected. The houses were not merely close together, they formed a circular wall, thirty feet high. There were no windows facing outwards. The merlin soared away with a charm for better hunting laid upon it, it gave a single cry of thanks and was gone. Mustaphar strode around the wall. At last upon the opposite side of the village he came to the entrance. It was a small gate of thick, pale beech planks, about six feet high and freshly varnished. The houses met above it in a tight arch. A small way away the road to the outside world curved away. The tarmac was cracked and split and in some places the road was little more than a dirt track. The village car park, not far distant, was filled with old, rusting vehicles.

He lifted the latch on the door. To his surprise it swung open easily, well-oiled hinges turned without a noise. Pushing it back with his staff he walked down the narrow alley into the village. The buildings within the wall were tightly packed, though they lacked the ridged organisation of the outer rim. Although the walls were well white washed a great many of the houses seemed deserted, maybe as many as half. Their windows were boarded over and tiles were missing here and there on the inner curve of the roofs. The streets were covered in a light, grey dust, scuffed and heaped by the movement of the village's inhabitants. The inhabitants themselves, however, were nowhere to be seen. Only the light which glinted through small, square-paned windows revealed their presence.

Glancing up at the cats which stalked along the rooftops Mustaphar turned towards the nearest door and rapped upon it with his staff. He stood waiting, surveying the building. There was no movement from inside the house. He knocked again, harder this time. There were footsteps along the hall and the door was opened by a young woman. She was dressed in a rough-spun, red and brown dress. A shawl covered most of her dull, blonde hair and ran down to her shoulders. Her pale, green eyes caught his; she froze like a rabbit in the headlights. He spoke carefully, shaping the sound into words stolen from her mind.

"Hello … I want …" he rolled the words in his mouth tasting them, "shelter … May I stay the night?" He maintained the gaze, dark eyes glittering.

She opened and closed her mouth like a fish, before finally managing to take her voice back enough to speak, stuttering as she did so, "N … n … no. Try … try the hotel." She pointed away from the house towards the centre of the town.

Mustaphar nodded curtly and spun on his heel, striding away from her. The door closed behind him. The streets were silent. The last rays of sunlight illuminated the walls of the hotel, which lay at the centre of the town. It was tall, and shabby, though it had the air of a place which had once been grand. Golden paint flaked from the embossed sign above the door and the once grand door was dusty, pitted and scarred. The place was almost empty.

His staff thudded on the bare wooden floorboards as he entered. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, faux candle light illuminating the room with a soft, friendly glow. Above the bar hung bunches of herbs, rosemary, thyme, and a string of garlic bulbs. A few patrons looked up from a table in the corner where they were playing cards. At the bar two men were talking heatedly. As Mustaphar crossed the floor the taller of the two, a man with dark, tanned skin, stood up, straightening his back and held out his hand towards the barman in a grand gesture.

"You sir," the man declared, "have gone too far. Barman hand me my weapons." The room paused. The lady at the bar shuffled behind the bar for a moment and with great solemnity drew out a set of dominoes. "Right, now we can sort this out properly," the tanned man declared a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

The men playing cards chuckled appreciatively and returned to their game. Ignoring them Mustaphar leant his staff against the exquisitely polished wood of the bar and snapped his fingers. The sound drew the barmaid's attention instantly. It cut through the chatter of the room and even the lively jazz which the room's speakers were playing. The woman turned and raised an eyebrow.

"Can I help you?" She asked coolly.

"I was informed that I could find lodgings here," Mustaphar replied, drawing the words from the mind of one of the card players. "Just for the night."

She swirled a lump of chewing gum around her mouth and spat it out into her palm, before flicking it into a bin on the other side of the room with practised ease. "Sure. What standard? Decent, bad, or so damn awful that cockroaches won't stay there."

"Decent," he hazarded, and pulled his money pouch from his belt.

She waved him away, "Don't worry about it, you can pay in the morning." Her eyes flicked away, glancing towards the door which trembled in a blast of wind before swinging off the latch and banging back and forth. She paled slightly. "I hope you … I hope you enjoy your stay."

Mustaphar raised one thick, black, eyebrow at her, but she ignored him. Instead she busied herself with fetching a bottle of spirits from behind the counter for the card players. She passed it over the counter to them and then looked back to him. Her gaze was slightly unfocused as if she were trying not to look at him too closely. He decided to take the bull by the horns.

"You look faint, _Szanowna Panna._ I trust you are well." He leaned forwards, dark eyes glittering in the light of the lanterns, for a moment she seemed hooked.

"I … it is nothing, I am just a little tired. Is there anything I can get you, supper is served in an hour or so. I'll get you a menu …" She hurried away, darting into the depths of the building, to return with a battered menu, covered in crossed off dishes. Indeed, once he had finished scanning the menu it became apparent that apart from tripe soup the only dish available (other than a ham burger, a dish he was unfamiliar with) was carp caught, according to the menu, in the nearby lake.

Mustaphar nodded to himself and put down the menu. "I'll order closer to the time." His particular brand of deep legilimancy required physical contact, it was of no real use unless he wished for a scene and there seemed no immediate danger. He joined the card players, slipping among them, insinuating himself into their party.

At first their eyes flicked over him, but slowly, as if he had been there all along they began to react to his presence. The smiles came first, then the nods of recognition, as if he was familiar to them. Before long it would have been hard to convince them that they had not seen his face every day for years. The rust coloured robe was ignored, treated as if it were an everyday sight. Soon his deft hands were nimbly shifting the cards, shuffling, dealing, playing. He flipped the thin scrapes of laminated paper onto the table, learning the game as he went.

Mustaphar's fingers brushed those of one of the oldest players, as he dealt out the cards once more, and shot backwards as if stung. _Night. Blood. Fear._ The man shivered, reacting in some small way to the magic which had leapt between them. The game paused, the glamour around him faltering as they almost came to their senses.

Mustaphar stood, reasserting the power for long enough that they lapsed back into a dazed trance as he left their table, leaving their memories of his presence fuzzy. He shook himself, gripping his staff for comfort. He looked out of the narrow slit of the window, but it was dark outside, the shadowy night pressed against the panes.

He walked over to the reception desk-cum-bar and tapped his fingers on the carefully stained wood. The barmaid looked over at him and indicated with a shrug of her shoulders that if he wanted anything he better get on and ask for it.

"Give me …" he paused for a moment, "water."

She poured it from a bottle without comment and passed it across the counter. He plucked it from her hand, their fingertips touching. Images flashed before his eyes: _a blood coloured night. Fear. A middle aged woman with bright, lively eyes, a choker of pearls around her neck dying in a bed as the barmaid held her hand._ He found the name even as she pulled away.

"Your mother was Natalia," he stated, innocently, leaning on the counter.

She looked up at him, surprised, answering warily, "She was."

"I knew her in the old days. You look very much like her. How is she now?"

"Dead." She looked at him curiously. "I do not think she ever mentioned you … I would remember."

He smiled easily, white teeth shining, "Oh, you know how it is. There's always someone you don't mention. I seem to be that person with remarkable frequency, it must be something about my face." He took a breath considering his next move. "I'm sorry to hear that she's dead. It must have be quick. I can't imagine anything catching her out unless it had the advantage of surprise." The first rule of pretending to know a beloved relative: compliment them. She winced at his words, her face twisting for a moment. He smiled grimly, she was hiding something.

"Yes … it was … sudden," she agreed, hesitating over the words as if she were unsure whether or not they were true. She glanced away towards the card players, blinking. "What did you do to them?"

It was his turn to blink, in surprise though, shocked that she had noticed. "Why should I have done anything to them?" He offered, wrong footed by the question.

"When you went over there they just accepted you. They didn't even seem to notice you at first," she explained warily. "I've never seen a human do that before."

"It is a knack. I am a very charming fellow," he said, before adding as an afterthought, "and modest with it."

Her lips stubbornly refused to curl in anything like amusement, despite his light-hearted tone. "That's not it. I've seen Jan punch a man for less, look, I'll tell you just this once: no funny business. Folks don't like it around here."

"My thanks for your warning," he answered. A smile still played on his lips, but now it was fixed, icy thing. "People never _do_ like funny business. You are quite safe, 'funny business' is not my business."

She might have been about to answer, but before she could the door opened again and a young man with vivid, red hair, pale, freckled skin and dark, shadowed eyes, stepped into the room. An uneasy hush fell over the players as he approached the counter on bare feet. He leaned across the wood of the desk, the smell of wild violets and thyme surrounded him in coiling fronds. His nose was wrinkled in disgust as if there was an unpleasant smell in the room. One which it seemed the pungent odours of crushed garlic and dusty rosemary failed to block, for him at least. A small, pink tongue flickered out running over his teeth.

When he spoke it was barely more than a soft, velvety purr, "Marta, my dear, you're behind on your payments. He …" he paused, savouring the silence, his power over it. "We heard that you've recently come into possession of something which could ease the situation. Smooth things over as it were." He smiled a wide, toothy smile.

Marta's face had fallen inwards on itself as he spoke, turning ashen. "Can we talk about this in private?" She asked, her voice hardly more than a whisper, "I … I can't just …"

"Of course you can," he replied soothingly, "but yes. I think talking in private would be better. Though, in a sense, this is a public matter. You'd do well to remember that."

They retreated into a backroom leaving the room to relax again, tension fading away. Over at the table one of the card players laughed and threw up his arms in celebration. Mustaphar sipped his water, thinking.

Mustaphar was asleep in bed when the vampire came for him. Only the slightly shift in magical pressure woke him as the creature drew it from the surrounding air, draining it as it shifted from mist to human form. That momentary warning as it reformed from the thick, grey tendrils of fog under the crooked door, was probably what save his life. He shot awake, rolling over onto his side as the vampire lunged forward. Its fist splintered the bedstead as it attempted to trap its victim. In the moonlight from the window Mustaphar picked out the features of the red headed man.

Mustaphar's fingers flicked out and with a soft whumph the air shot forwards in a compressed wave. The blow clipped the vampire's arm and sent the creature spinning. The wall crumpled under the ball of air, wood cracking. The vampire hissed, striking out, its talons raked the air. Mustaphar, barely on his feet, leaned out of the way, almost overbalancing. A breathless incantation and the next blow met a solid wall of air with a resounding clang as if it had hit a gong.

The vampire snarled, circling him. Its fangs were bared and the black eyes glinted with malice. "You can't escape, magician. _We_ rule here. Even if you escape me a score of us will rend you limb from limb. If you seek shelter in this village they will let us in. They ceased to fight us long ago. Give up and accept your fate with good grace."

Mustaphar spat, he caught the ball of saliva in his hands and smeared it over them. "You cannot win. I have not met man or creature who might match me in a fair fight ... and I never fight fair." The spit caught fire. Flickering, burgundy flames leapt from his hands, twisting into a jet of heat and light. It tore through the wall to the hallway, vaporising the wood. The vampire had leapt, barely clearing the flames. It swarmed along the ceiling, head twisted round to watch him, before it dropped to the floor beside him. It landed with cat-like grace and in a single smooth movement grasped his right arm. With a sharp tug the bone snapped and Mustaphar, yowling with pain sunk to his knees.

For a moment a look of triumph crossed the creature's face, and then Mustaphar's hand smashed into its chest. There was a flash of purple light as the last of the spit ignited and it hurtled backwards. It crashed through the intervening wall between Mustaphar's room and the en-suite. Splinters filled the air, cascading down around them. Dust rose upwards. Mustaphar waited, crouched on the floor, his good hand groping for his staff. There was a sigh as the vampire dissolved into mist again, spreading out in a low, insubstantial fog.

His fingers found the staff and closed around it. His eyes flicked from side to side, trying to determine where the fog was gathering. It was as he looked to his right that the vampire's semi-ethereal hand slammed into him. Partially formed as it was, more fog than flesh, the impact was muted, but it sent him sprawling. He cracked his head against the wood of the door. He grunted with the impact and his vision swam as he swept the staff around in a wide arc. Spears of light leapt from its tip. Three pierced the vampire, its flesh smoked where they hit. Right shoulder, left eye, left arm. The glowing spears impaled it, the creature writhed, wriggling, hopelessly, its face a distorted mask of fury and pain. Mustaphar stood and limped across the room, slowly, deliberately. He drew his staff across the air in front of the vampire's throat. A thin, silvery line appeared for a moment, before burning through the creature's neck. It dissolved into ash and dust.

Mustaphar sighed, sinking onto an unbroken part of the bed to collect his thoughts. No sound came from the rest of the hotel. Presumably, he thought, they had ignored the attack, letting his intended death pay for their own safety. Still he would deal with that in the morning. He did his best to set his arm and check that his ribs were no more than bruised before settling back to sleep. As he fell asleep a grin twisted his features.

* * *

Marta was doodling when the dark-skinned man sauntered across the hotel lobby and asked for breakfast. He was walking awkwardly, painfully, but a smile played over his lips, delighted, exhilarated and dangerous. She stared at him, blinking in disbelief.

"You … you can't be …" she stuttered, her normally blunt manner failing her for once.

"Awake yet? Certainly not the most restful night I have ever enjoyed, but neither was it the worst," he answered pleasantly. "Now: breakfast."

She nodded absently and hurried towards the kitchens. He had been injured, that much was obvious, so _they_ had attacked, which meant that he had survived. He could beat them. She stopped in her tracks, half-way through preparing scrambled eggs. Her phone was out of her pocket in a moment. There was a breathless pause as the phone rang, and then a man answered.

Mustaphar looked over the village delegation at his table. He took a bite of the toast and chewed, making them wait in awkward silence. "You have a problem. A problem I can fix. However, I will require payment …" he let the sentence hang, waiting to see what they would offer.

The elderly couple who seemed to be in charge nodded eagerly, "Anything we have which you want … it's yours. We are not rich, but we will give you everything we have."

"I have no need for money," Mustaphar answered, pushing the remains of the toast around his plate with a finger. "In any case you betrayed the laws of hospitality and allowed a guest to be attacked. You owe me. First though I want information. Do you know any magic?"

They shook their heads. "There used to be a few enchanters in the village, but the vampires came for them first. We didn't even know that there was magic, but the last of them, a witch, Vilia, told us before trying to go to burn the creatures out. She warned us that we should run, those who did … they didn't get far."

Mustaphar was silent for a moment, musing upon the information. It seemed that here the masquerade which had appeared to hide the magical world since his own day was failing. Perhaps that was just what he needed. "What are the terms under which they allow you to live?"

"We let them feed upon any strangers who come to the village. As long as they feed once a month they let us be. If there are no strangers in that month …" he bowed his head, looking at his partner.

"We must offer up one of our own. It would be my husband's turn next as eldest in the village," the solid man explained, a look of anguish passing over his features. "Please, please help us."

Mustaphar considered, it would take time out of his journey, but the exercise was probably worth it. There was also the fact that Vampires frequently hoarded magical items …

"Let's discuss my price," he began.

* * *

_The Ministry of Magic, London:_

A glowing silver mirror revealed a battalion of French warriors marching into the growing war camp outside Calais. Their blue robes magnificent were in the early morning sun. For once the grey clouds which cloaked the edges of the English Channel had broken and the landscape was brilliantly lit. The image was blurred, distorted by the wards around the camp, but still clear enough.

Draco Malfoy watched the image, lips pursed, whilst his fingers tapping idly against the back of his left hand. He tapped the mirror and the image paused before swinging to capture the image of the French encampment as a whole. The serried rows of tents, parade grounds and soldiers came into rough focus.

"We _are_ certain this is genuine?" He asked Livia. She stood beside him, silver eyes cool and collected, her hands folded neatly in front of her.

"Yes Grandfather. Our spies are certain. The best estimates are that a full quarter of the French army is now stationed outside Calais. They should be ready to strike any day now. How are talks with the French President going?"

Draco smiled, "Awfully. The last time I saw him he almost cursed me. Only the intervention of his attendants prevented him. The rest of the French Ministry is equally hawkish. Our spies have done an excellent job of feeding the flames of their anger. When I passed through Paris they were shouting 'Die English scum' at me? It is so very self-affirming to be truly hated."

"I'm glad to hear it Grandfather," she replied, her tone bland.

He spun his chair around to face her. The dark wood twisted and swirled as it shifted form, "What news from Germany?"

"The status has not changed. They are proceeding against an unknown threat. A few more of the aurors have died, otherwise things have not changed. We expect that either they will be dead soon, or that they will be back on the main task. Our agents have delivered the required spell. It's simply a matter of time now. Whatever happens it will work to our advantage."

He nodded brusquely, satisfied, and stood up. He paused, fingers gripping the edge of his desk tightly for an instant before he picked up his cloak from beside the door and slung it over his shoulders. His hand closed around his wand, caressing the smooth, black, varnished wood lovingly. He paused for a moment, before looking up at her. "Livia, my dear, how would you feel about a little bit of duelling practise. I rather wish to remove the ache from these old bones, and I feel a bit of practise might do me a world of good."

"Of course, Grandfather. Shall I have some practise dummies brought to the training rooms for you?"

"Don't be stupid girl, if I wanted to blast a few chunks of wood into dust I could go to a wood. I wish to duel with you, _now_ ," he snapped, his jaw tightening.

She nodded calmly, "Lead on, Grandfather." _Don't worry Grandfather, you won't need to concern yourself with such matters before long_ , she added silently as she followed him from the room.

* * *

_Altewald:_

Harry ran, crashing through the bracken. He could see the village now and beyond the sun setting, blood red and blazing. Tom was at his heels, panting more with fear than exhaustion. Figures moved towards them as they approached. Arabella, Richard, Frederick were among them. Harry stumbled over the boundary of the village. The mark on his hand was burning with the Erlking's magic as it pulsed against his own. A throbbing heartbeat, ticking away the seconds of his life.

"Quick. Got … got to tell you …" he panted, bent double, swaying slightly.

"Is he gone?" Arabella asked, hope sparking in her voice, "did you find the children?"

Harry waved his hand trying to cut her off, "Alive, they're alive … beat us though … sent message … got to tell you …"

Tom was beside them now, equally out of breath, "Need to leave … If you stay … you die, or pay tribute …"

"Tribute?" Arabella choked on the question, "No. Never."

The magic flared against Harry's skin, searing. Tom almost snarled in frustration, "No, no, we delivered the message! Don't you dare …"

Then the magic was cascading from them, leaving them alive, Harry sighed in relied, sinking to his knees. He looked up at the others, ready to smile, assure them that they weren't beaten yet. The others were no longer paying attention to them. They were gazing upwards, frozen in horror. He looked upwards slowly. Where Tom and he had dashed over the boundary wards the once invisible dome was burning. Green fire snaked over it, climbing like ivy. It tore the walls of magic down, ripping them to shreds. Pieces fell earthwards, thin translucent segments of magic, breaking apart on the wind.

"Oh ye gods," Harry muttered, horrified. "We didn't carry the message, we _were_ the message." He looked down at the wood implanted in his hand, it was dead, only the barest spark of magic remained. The once vibrant, spring green had faded to dull brown. The magic was gone and he was alive, but it was tearing at the wards.

"What have you done?" Arabella whispered in shock, her face bloodless.

The trees began to move. Long branches snaking forwards.


	14. Spells and Bells

**Spells and Bells**

For a moment they stood frozen in horrified fascination. Richard silently passed Harry his brown leather coat. Harry took it absentmindedly, his mouth hanging open in shock. Arabella's eyes were fixed on the encroaching forest. Her wand was grasped immobile in her hand.

Tom gazed upwards, mesmerised by the collapsing wards. Ragged scraps of floating light fell earthwards around them. Harry could feel Tom excitement, the rush of adrenaline as the odds stacked ever higher against them. It was like a racing heartbeat or a leaping strain of music rising to a crescendo.

He saw Tom's lips move more clearly than he heard his words, " _Lacrimae mundi_ … beautiful. So very, _very_ beautiful." Tom turned and looked at Harry, a savage grin played across his face, "Close your mouth boy, you don't want to catch flies … Now, prepare to dance."

Tom reached out a hand, absentmindedly running his long fingers over a falling flake of tiny, interlinking runes. Though ragged at the edges they formed a sheet the size of a dinner plate. The floating magic crackled with eerie, dull, scarlet flames which licked over the green light of the runes. Then the runes faded, melting into his hand.

One of Richard's last two aurors tried desperately to apparate. For a moment he disappeared, only to reappear screaming. Half his body lay where he had stood, the other half lay on the edge of the trees. Arabella and Frederick blanched, but it was too late to help.

The forest was closing in from all sides. Leaves rustled, twigs snapped, rocks cracking as the trees slithered forwards. It was a slow inexorable surge of movement. It started with the faintest of ripples in the distant woodland but it had the power and weight of the sea of trees behind it. The clouds above were dark blue, almost purple, the shade seen only at the last light of day when the sun has already set.

Throughout the village flaming torches and lamps were still spluttering into life. They shone like candles in an otherwise lightless cathedral, accentuating the vastness of the surrounding forest. Birds rose from the trees. They spiralled into the sky like plumes of smoke. Harry hoped that the moving trees had disturbed them, but he had the sinking feeling that there was more to it than that.

Arabella was the first to break out of the trance. She raised her wand into the air, letting off three vast, reverberating bangs which left Harry's ears ringing before she pointed the wand to her throat and called out, in a reasonable impersonation of a calm voice, "Everyone, to the church now! The village is under attack!"

"The church?" Tom asked, casually, as he moved into action. He straightened up, turning his left side towards trees standing, like a fencer though his wand was raised above his right shoulder. Windows and doors around the village were opening as people looked out, confused.

"It's the strongest building," said Arabella, flicking out her wand so that the ground before them was illuminated by a ghostly phosphorescent glow. "We're between the closet part of the forest and it. Everyone will have most time to gather there. If they do it quickly I might be able to put up a few defences while we figure out a plan. _Lacero_ ," a beam of orange light sliced off a creeping tendril of ivy as it curled along the ground towards them.

"If you want to give the sheep time to get to the church you are going to need a little more than cutting charms," Tom replied lazily. He spat out a curse which withered the surrounding grass, it turned first yellow, then brown and then to dust. The earth was left bare and barren. "Let me demonstrate how to do it ..."

Harry heard Tom's voice in every fibre of his body. It came each and every molecule of his being. It felt like the sound of a cat's claws on a blackboard; the beating of a marching drum. _Go. To. The. Church._ The words alone were very nearly a compulsion, his right leg jerked trying to drag him away for a moment before the feeling faded.

"What," said Arabella shakily, shifting her gaze from the trees to Tom, whose narrowed eyes were still fixed on the darkened gaps of the leafy wall, "in the name of Faust, was that?"

" _That_ was magic," Tom murmured, his lips twitching in amusement. "Now run along and start on your wards before the wave breaks." Before she could reply he was moving. His wand whipped around in a tight circle behind his shoulder before stabbing forward as if he were hurling something at the trees. " _Vente tangere silvas. Dele!_ "

A wind sprung up, roaring into life around them. It was a howling gale, pushing at them. Arabella, buffeted by the wind struggled to keep her hair out of her eyes. Only Tom was unaffected, standing at the eye of the storm. However, though the wind whipped against them it was nothing to the wind which raged against the forest. Branches bent backwards, audibly groaning with the strain. For a moment the trees wavered in their advance, but then they began to move again, slowly now. Tom grunted, his jaw tightening, teeth grinding. He stood firm, both hands clasped on his wand holding the trees back through sheer force of will.

Harry could see figures pouring towards the church. One or two clutched bundles that might have been possessions or children. Tom's spell, powerful though it was, was only shielding a section of the perimeter and if it were not a trick of the light the trees around the edge seemed to be beginning to move faster.

"Frederick, and you, auror, whatever your name is, you take the left. Richard, you and I will hold the right," Harry ordered, before turning and running around the corner an old, wooden house. They nodded moving to follow his orders. Meanwhile Arabella set off at a run for the church.

Harry licked his lips. His hand fumbled over his wand for a moment as he secured his grip on it. Directing the tip towards a strip of ground, about twenty feet away, he flicked it in a gentle sweep. " _Ignesce_!" Brilliant, flickering, turquoise flames leapt from the earth. They rapidly blackened and cracked the soil around them. He gave a twisting slash, locking the spell in place. A faint pain pulsed somewhere behind his eyes. He swore.

"Richard, you're going to have to keep up the offensive side of things," Harry grunted, steadying himself against the wall of the house. He had the sneaking suspicion that the Erlking's symbol had channelled the magic it had against the wards through him, leaving him even more worn out.

Richard looked at him curiously for a moment before turning aside, rolling his broad shoulders in preparation. " Keep the enemy at bay then, or really … let loose? Give them what for, I say."

"I think we're better off just holding the line," Harry answered wearily. "The trees don't seem particularly aggressive yet. The Erlking must have been distracted by something. We can't destroy the whole forest. We need time, not glory."

"Pity," Richard sighed and slung a freezing bolt of air towards a nearby tree. The wood creaked, shuddered and split, but the crack only ran through part of the trunk and as the spell faded the wood snapped back together. From far away at the other side of the village Harry could dimly hear screams.

Then the birds descended, swooping from the sky. They were nearly invisible against the blackness above. Their movement was almost silent, masked by the crackle of the fire and the creaking of the branches. The first crow barely missed Harry's head. Its talons caught the leather of his coat, scoring scratches along it. He shook the bird off, blasting it into a bloody mess of feathers and bone.

"Change of plan, Richard, concentrate on the trees. I'll try and deal with the birds. _Implodiame_!" A concussive wave rippled through the air, smashing a dozen birds together, leaving them to crash, awkwardly into the ground.

For a time they held their ground. The birds, though ferocious, were inaccurate in the semi-darkness and too fragile to withstand spells. The roots were kept at bay by the fire and Richard dispatched the branches which sought to curve over the flames. The end, when it came, was sudden.

Branches burst from the buildings on either side, splintering the wooden walls. They writhed furiously as they sought for prey. Harry's concentration snapped entirely and the turquoise wall of flames died away, sinking into the earth. Serpentine creepers lashed out at them. One caught Harry's forearm just below his coat, ripping open the sleeve of his jumper. It cut a long, thin line along his flesh. Blood welled up fast, he yelp and dropped his wand. He spun around, catching it with his left hand before it touched the ground.

The earth shuddered as the advance of the trees sped up. Massive, thick limbs followed the thin creepers, thumping into the ground, trying to crush the wizards beneath the huge, clubbed ends. Harry leapt to the side, rolling away, his arm clutched to his chest as he did so.

The deep boom of the church tower's bell rang out, ringing over the town, echoing from the trees. Richard, somewhere to his right spoke up, grunting the words in between his spells, "What do you think … _excide_ … that means? _Lancine_!"

"Don't know," Harry replied, physically wrestling a briar off his leg. "Need to retreat." He straightened up, jabbing his wand forwards. " _Impulso_!" A branch shattered as the spell connected, turning to splinters.

Out of the darkness Arabella's voice echoed over the village, distorted by exhaustion and magic, "Retreat! Retreat to the church!"

A huge oak was lurching forwards, limbs swiping down. A shower of tiles exploded from the roof of one house. A branch, as thick as Harry's arm was long, smashed into the tiles, shards of terracotta raining down.

"Run!" Harry yelled, spinning on his heel. They dodged between the narrow alleys, jumping over low garden fences and blasting through the taller ones. However, it seemed that the forest had out flanked them: much of the way to the church was blocked by trees, briars and curling ivy which swarmed over ground and buildings alike. They paused, breathing hard, stumbling to a halt upon a patio not far from the church. The way was blocked by a mighty ash tree. For the moment the forest was too intent upon the church to notice them. Harry could spy sky blue wisps of magic spiralling into the air around the building. _That better be a shield,_ he thought, _we're going to need it_.

His arm and hands were throbbing from scratches by various thorns, talons and branches. His palms were slick with blood and sweat. He glanced towards Richard. The auror seemed a little winded and a shallow scrape on his cheek was dripping blood into his beard, but otherwise he appeared unharmed.

"Any ideas? Magical grenades or something?" He asked Richard, ignoring the chaos of the shifting wood around them.

"Why, in the name of Satan's pet monkey, would I have grenades of _any_ description? Before you took us off on this disaster of a mission I was under the impression that we were to do little more than spy out the bloody landscape! Taking on eldritch horrors and an entire damn forest is beyond the bloody remit!" Richard ranted in a vicious hiss.

Harry shook his head. He regretted it a moment later, the headache was burning like molten metal. He began to rummage through the pockets of his coat: some string, a penknife, a couple of books, the invisibility cloak, the aged snitch, an ancient packet of polos, and the magical eye he had found in the junk shop in Stuttgart. There were other items, but none of them any more helpful. Even the invisibility cloak was unlikely to be of much use, given that the trees could not see to begin with. His fingers closed around the electric blue, ceramic eyeball again, an idea sparking into life.

"Richard, what did you say happens when you try and repair magical objects?" He asked distantly. He fixed his eyes on a small knot in the trunk of the ash tree, thrown into shadowy relief by a flickering torch on a nearby wall, judging the distance.

Richard looked at him oddly, evidently thinking it was a bad time to ask pointless questions, "They explode … what …?" He caught sight of the cracked eyeball Harry held between forefinger and thumb. "Ah. That would work."

Harry threw the eye to Richard who caught it neatly before pressing his wand tip to the fissure in the object's surface. With his concentration fixed on the small globe Richard failed to notice as Harry bowed his head for an instant.

They hunkered down behind the low garden wall as the improvised grenade arched through the air. Richard's aim had been slightly off and it rolled to a stop in the roots of the ash, rather than striking higher up the trunk. They waited in tense silence, unsure as to when, or if, the eye would explode. The ceramic surface shimmered and then in a flash of indigo light it disintegrated as the magic erupted outwards. The wild power half caved in the small wall, though it only left bruises. They leapt over the wall together, limbs screaming as they ran. The trees were scattered. Many leant precariously, scrabbling for purchase as their roots desperately worming into the earth.

They were within spitting distance of the faintly shimmering barrier when Harry tripped and fell. The pain in his head blinded him to his surroundings. Frederick and Tom who had been waiting by the church doors, fending off the attacking host, saw him fall and started forwards. Richard carried on, sprinting into the church. Fear flitted over Tom's face, but Frederick was already beside Harry, heaving him upright.

Frederick half lifted, half pushed Harry over the boundary. Before Frederick could follow him over the ward-line a long, wiry creeper surged forwards like a spear, impaling him. Frederick's eyes opened wide in shock. His wand dropped from his nerveless hands and, with a look of bemusement upon his face, he looked down at the barbed wooden spike which protruded from his chest dripping dark liquid.

"Oh ..." was all he said, then the creeper jerked backwards and he was sucked out of sight.

Tom, his wand flashing in a dizzying set of spirals, loops, dots, dashes, slashes and flicks, heaved Harry back towards the church, supporting him. Tom pushed him through the open door and slammed it behind them. With the sound of a thunderclap, a scintillating, transparent dome of light descended around the church.

The last thing Harry heard before the blackness claimed him was Arabella's voice. "I've locked the shields in place. We'll have to keep checking on them, but they'll hold for a few hours at least. I felt Potter enter … where's Frederick, he's not still out there is he? We're safe for now …" and then there was a murmur from someone else and a small gasp of horror.

* * *

Voldemort caught Harry as he fell. He winced as his flesh came in contact with Harry's. His skin crawled and stung viciously as they brushed against one another. The cursed boy's mudblood mother had left a deep mark upon her son. Yet there was longing there too; he could feel the sliver of his soul inside the boy's body struggling to return to him.

His arms strained as they supportws the boy's weight. Lowering him to the floor he stepped back swiftly. If only he had time he would fix the fragment of his soul more securely. Resilient as the boy was one could never be safe enough. Though possibly when standing in a church surrounded by a malevolent forest was not quite the best time to make adjustments.

He spun on his heel. The church was packed with refugees from the village. They were huddled in groups like terrified church-mice. Some cried pathetically, others sat unmoving, shell-shocked. To one side a group of the more stable were tending to the wounded. He glanced down at Harry again. There were numerous thorns embedded in the boy's arm and hands. Blood trickled down from above his wrist. Steeling himself Voldemort knelt down. His fingers hooked a phial from his pocket. Careful not to allow skin contact he gently let the blood drip into it. A quick preserving charm later and he was finished. Straightening up he turned and snapped his fingers at a nearby figure.

"Boy, fetch someone to attend to this man," he ordered, hardly glancing at the child.

"I'm a girl," came a small and haughty protest, but he had already stalked past. He needed a place to think and order his thoughts. He slid through the press, passing by Richard Thorbecombe. The man did not notice him, he was too busy reassuring the last of the aurors.

Voldemort suppressed the desire to eavesdrop, there was probably little to be learnt. Still there was something wrong about the man. For someone with no obvious or exceptional talents he was almost keeping pace with Harry, and by extension also with Voldemort himself. Worse still the Ministry stooge seemed to have no particular vices. There was always something unreal, untrustworthy about a man who had no obvious flaw beyond general patheticness; everyone has weaknesses, a man who shows none is a liar

His thoughts were interrupted by the rising babble of voices.

"What are we going to do?"

"Adrian? Where are you? Has anyone seen Ad …"

"Shush, shush. It'll be okay. Here, I'll sing you a lullaby …"

"It's their fault. We were doing fine before they turned up …"

"Fine? My daughter was taken!"

He slipped into an ante-chamber, closing the door behind him. The noise died away, muted by the thick wood. A swift switching spell and he was clothed his own bespoke, black robe and long, dark, leather boots. He sighed with pleasure; robes were so much more elegant than those hideous muggle clothes. Adjusting his bootstraps he considered the room for a moment and conjured a tall armchair. He sat down, stretched out his legs and closed his eyes. One hand twirled his wand.

Branches rattled outside. The tapped against one another as they gently tested the glowing dome which guarded the church. Privately he doubted the defences would last long if the Erlking were to assault them in person.

"So why," he murmured aloud, "did he not lead the attack to begin with?"

* * *

Trees whispered to one another outside the church. The branches creaked and groaned as they spread, intertwining over the steep roof. Arabella sat numbly in the belfry. She shivered as she stared out, watching. Her fingers pressed hard against her palms. Her nails drew tiny crescents of blood which slowly trickled down between her fingers.

She took a long, deep breath, one problem at a time. _Grieve later. Revenge later. Survive now._ She could feel the gentle scritch-scratching against the protective charms. The broken, shattered centre of the original defences danced around her preventing the replacement from stabilising. The forest milled about below them. It was an endless sea of trees, black and shadowy in the pale starlight. Rooks and crows loomed above like a storm cloud as they circled in a giant, inverted cone. She was trapped, they were all completely trapped. They were like mice sheltering in a hole with a cat waiting just outside.

The Moon poked above the horizon, a golden band rising slowly into the sky. Arabella unclenched her fingers. She winced as the cramp hit her, accompanied by stinging palms. She needed to talk to someone, work out what was going on, what to do next. She took the steps down from the belfry slowly, one at a time.

Most of the church was silent. A few people, wide-eyed and pale sat awake gently trembling, but most slept, exhausted. She drifted among them, unnoticed, and slipped into a side chapel. Tom was seated there. His eyes were closed, his jaw was clenched. He looked like a perfectly preserved corpse with his pale skin, highlighted by his dark hair. _He is almost majestic_ , she thought, _but there's something sinister to him, something wrong_. There was something more about him, something familiar. It was particularly noticeable in that pose as his wand hanging idly from his hand. He looked very much like a painting she had seen once. She closed the door with a soft click and his eyes flew open.

She jumped. "Did your eyes …" she began. For a moment she would have sworn she had seen a glint of red, "sorry, trick of the light."

He nodded smoothly, he rose from his chair and conjured a second for her. It was plainly upholstered in a soft grey, but looked reasonably comfy. "Do sit," he murmured, "I have several questions to ask of you. It really is most fortuitous that you should have dropped by."

"Thanks," she replied quietly. "Anything I can do to help …"

"I need to know this: how long do you imagine the defences will last?" He asked, striding around the room, lighting candles.

"It depends. On their own they will probably fall within a day or two … the attack shattered the original wards with a precision I wouldn't have believed possible. They are useless to us. The nexus of the old wards is functioning though, to a degree, but it's only serving to short out new wards. They won't last long, even if there is no renewed assault."

"I thought so. So I have to ask: can we escape? Apparation is obviously out of the question and after my first visit I do not fancy trying a portkey …"

"Floo is out too. As far as I can tell from what's left up there it would probably end up blowing us all to kingdom come."

"Flying?" He asked, resuming his seat.

"Hardly any brooms in here; the trees have covered the dome around us, and the birds are everywhere, we'd have to hack our way out," she slumped backwards, cradling her head. She screwed her eyes tight shut as she tried to think of a way out.

"Were you close?"

The sudden, unexpected question cut through her thoughts, "I'm sorry?"

"The boy, Fredericke?" He asked haltingly. "You seemed quite affected by his death." The tone was tight and awkward, the concern, seemed genuine though. She did not look up as she ran her fingers through her hair, wondering how to answer.

"We … we grew up together. One of my clearest early memories … I got one of my grandmother's books muddy while reading down by the stream. He told her he'd done it in order to get me out of trouble. It didn't work, she knew what had happened but it meant a lot to me … I promised that if he ever needed it I'd do my best to protect him from anything and everything. I … I didn't do so well at that did I?"

"I am sure you did all you could." She could hear the strain in his voice. She gave a small smile, almost amused by how unsure he was about how to behave.

"I'm sorry, we've got more important things to worry about …"

"Not at all," he said, before hurriedly adding, "but you are right that perhaps we should concentrate on the matter in hand."

"How come you are here anyway? You don't really seem to mesh with most of your group … and some of the magic you were using … I've never seen anything like it. What led you here?" She asked, attempting to lighten the mood.

"It's the Boy's fault. He rather drags me into scraps of this sort," he said, giving a deprecating smile.

"Boy? Do you mean Harry?" She asked, looking up at him.

"Yes. Potter frequently interferes with my life. He even had my pet killed once, one might think he had a vendetta against me," he sighed, slowly flicking his wand from side to side. The wood embedded in the back of his hand bent with the movement.

She blinked, "He killed your pet? We are talking about the same person aren't we? Black hair, green eyes …"

"And wearing a hideous pair of glasses? Yes, that would be him."

"Known him long?" She asked, leaning back in her chair.

"Longer than most. Sometimes it seems as if our fates were intertwined long, long ago. Moving on, however, the question is what can we do against our current foe?"

"Well, I've been doing a bit of thinking … I can't help but wonder why we're not dead yet."

"Simple," he smiled thinly, rising to his feet to pace the room again, "we are not dead because that is not the Erlking's objective. He planned the wards failing so he knew when and how it would happen. He forced Harry and me to bring it about some sort of ritual channelled through these symbols," he tapped the back of his hand, "but the reaction was slow …"

"So he wasn't attacking to destroy us, but push us into here?" Her interruption made him twitch, but there was no other reaction.

"Precisely. How many did we even lose in the retreat? I will wager it was barely more than a handful. So far the gambit has worked. The question is what does he want?"

"The children," she offered.

Tom nodded, pacing faster, hands folded behind his back. "Children grow up though. A child becomes a teenager and then an adult. He obviously has a rather finite interest in them if the selection so far is any indication. Eventually he will need more. That is where you all come in," his smiled grimly in anticipation.

She looked at him assessing his expression, "You admire him don't you? He intends to turn us into … into a herd. And you admire him!"

"Certainly. It has a certain elegance to it. I underestimated him, regarding him as inhuman and therefore inferior. I forgot the most important thing."

"Indeed?"

"Most humans are worthless. As a species you are unintelligent, fat, uninventive, irrational, short-lived, powerless …" The words were springing from his lips, and his eyes glinted with something similar to hunger.

"I think I get the picture," she interrupted, "I'll do without your charming description. You might want to remember that you're human too."

For a moment he paused, an eyebrow curving in response before he nodded shortly. "Of course, forgive me. I forgot myself," he sat, deflated.

"Who are you really?" She asked, curious.

"You would not believe me if I told you. Come, we still need a plan."

She sighed, racking her brains. "Well, if he needs us alive we could threaten to blow up this whole area … he lose part of the forest and potential breeding stock," she suggested.

"Not a particularly good plan. He wants you alive as subjects to give tribute, probably, but he's willing to kill if he feels like it," he pointed out glancing from side to side for something to do. "You are not the only village in the forest, merely the first. I need a way to destroy him."

"Any ideas, you've encountered him more … well just more than the rest of us," she pointed out, running her fingers through her hair.

"Direct magic will not work upon him. He can reform his body, and since the body is merely a shell he is immune to the killing curse. It is possible that fiend-fyre, or a killing curse aimed at him while he is incorporeal might do the job …"

"You've used that?" She paled, inching backwards in her chair.

"Yes. It _is_ merely a tool," he assured her, waving his hand dismissively, "really, I expected more of you. You seem moderately bright." He ignored her bristling in response overriding any comment she wished to make, "Please refrain from informing me it is 'evil'. I have heard that particular line too many times."

"But it _is_ evil. It's powered solely on the desire to kill! It's been _proven_ to eat away at its user's sanity!"

"Really? I would have thought you might do better than that. Those tests were biased towards a perspective which believed in an objective morality to begin with. Only the weak go mad. I can assure you that stronger temperaments may endure such magic with ease. _Yours_ might be one such …" his voice trailed off, leaving the suggestion hanging.

She swallowed thickly, "Erm, anyway … so we can't destroy him in direct combat. That makes sense I suppose. I was trying to do some research while you were off in the woods earlier. It seems about four hundred years ago now, he tried something similar and was beaten. The records don't explain what happened, but I cross referenced with anything to do with the sort of thing he's associated with at the time. A few things turned up: a child killing plague … a number of unnatural storms, and then sudden after a mass cull of elder and alder trees everything stopped. The villages around here all united in destroying as many of the trees as they could. If I'm right that probably left him too weak to act …"

"It would make sense; he _is_ a nature spirit of sorts. The question remains though: how do we destroy enough of the trees for that?" Tom sighed, tapping his wand against the arm of the chair. "We would need an item imbued with his essence to be able to enact a spell to affect those tied to him without going out and individually chopping down each of them.

"A sort of sympathetic magic. Such rituals affect the soul, he couldn't escape it no matter his form. It might work, but he isn't human. I doubt he has any convenient clothes we could use, even if we could get hold of them … What are we going to do, go and ask him for a bit of bark from his favourite tree? This is just a dead end." Clouds drifted past the window obscuring those stars still visible through the trees.

"You're getting off on this aren't you?" She asked with a grimace.

"Rather," he answered, lips twisting into something like a smile. "Still, does it not stir the blood? Feel it, the excitement, the fear …"

"Is this just a game to you?"

"Oh no. If it were just a game I would not enjoy it half so much," he smiled again, wider this time, feral, delighted and dangerous.

* * *

The first thing Harry heard when he woke was the pitter-patter of rain upon the high, narrow windows of the church. He sat up slowly. His coat, which had been laid over him, fell off him, pooling around his waist. His body ached all over, he felt covered in bruises. On the bright side his headache was gone and someone had done their best to tend to and wash his various cuts.

He stood painfully and threw his coat over his shoulders like a blanket. He looked around the room, it was fuzzy, even the shadows a dozen feet away had a blurry edge to them. He patted his pockets, before finding his glasses tucked thoughtfully onto the lapel of his coat. He blinked as he put them on, as the darkened nave came into focus.

In one corner he could see a thin line of soft yellow light emanating, and the hushed noise of muted voices came from under the door. Gradually picking his way across the hall he tip-toed towards the doorway.

"Sorry," he mumbled as his foot pressed into a sleeping body.

"Go 'way," the body grumbled.

His muscles tensed as he tried to sneak through the sleepers unnoticed. Finally once he was leaning on the door he breathed a sigh of relief. Behind it he could hear the low muttering of voices.

"... that's not … work … don't have … arrowroot …" observed a tired voice, it sounded female, the higher pitch was hard to hear through the thick wood.

"Have you heard of the ceremony of Neman? If we used that it might lead to him tearing himself apart …" suggested a deeper voice.

"Apart from … never heard … still need a talisman …" answered the woman wearily.

The door creaked, swinging open under Harry's weight, sending him sprawling into the room. He gave a small choked gasp as he hit the floor. He looked up. Tom had paused in mid-pace and was looking at him with a look which could have been amusement, concern, or merely irritation. Arabella was curled up in a large armchair.

"You know," Harry began, "that must be the first time I've eavesdropped and no-one was making evil plans. I'm disappointed in you Tom …"

"How droll. Shut the door won't you? You areletting in a draft," drawled Tom, turning back to the window.

"Anyone care to help me up?" Harry asked, wincing as he heaved himself to his feet, but they ignored him.

"We just don't have the resources for anything, except for a sympathetic ritual and we don't have a talisman to make that work. Tom … face it we've lost," Arabella murmured, curling up still more tightly in her chair.

Harry grasped the arm of her chair with his right hand to pull himself up. Arabella drew back, her face tight. Her eyes flicked over the wood embedded in his hand, and at almost exactly the same moment Tom laughed. "I think that we have found our weapon. It would seem that, just we underestimated him, he has underestimated us."

"You can't really think that this will work," Harry objected as Tom set out the candles upon the floor in the image of the triskelion embedded in their hands. "If you think that he planned this so very carefully he'll have put in defences against rituals of this sort … Hell if I were him I'd have done it anyway, justifiable paranoia and all."

"Ah but he is not you. I think he expected us to be dead. The attack was, if anything focused upon the two of us, I have checked and rechecked this. He made the mistake of thinking that we were merely human …" Tom stated smugly.

"We _are_ human. Your god complex aside we're just ordinary people! Look, think about this …"

"And give him time to act? Certainly not."

"He has a point Tom. The Erlking's been one step ahead of us all the way, and if what you said about the children is true then they're under his thrall …" Arabella grudgingly pointed out.

"So? I am almost certain that the charm he has laid upon them will simply break with his death. There is even a fair chance that they will survive it. I have tested these artefacts, you have witnessed it. I can still feel his power, faint though it is, in them. _Trust_ me. I doubt there is a man or woman alive as experienced as I am; I will be performing this, _I_ will overcome anything he throws my way," Tom insisted, exasperated.

"A fair chance? And what if you're wrong, they'll just overload with magic and die?" Harry asked.

"Horribly. I really don't see what the problem is. They have a chance."

"I don't even think you know what you're talking about. You're talking crap! What possible experience could you have to make a guess like that?" Harry snapped, eyeing the candles warily.

"Does it really matter?" Tom asked, turning to Arabella, "If we don't do this we will all face either death or enslavement. It will not only be the children who have already been taken, but everyone in the village. Even with your antiquated morals that must mean something to you, Boy. As to my experience rituals are a speciality of mine, particularly those linked to the soul. Remember Little Hangleton? Or maybe some of my most _personal_ effects would remind you, ancestral artefacts and so on and so forth," Tom hissed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Today is _not_ the day I die!"

"And there I was hoping to attend your funeral!" Harry said, throwing up his hand in mock mourning. "Think of the eulogy I could have given: he was a murdering basterd, sniff sniff, sob sob. He gave so much to the world: the killing curse, the killing curse, and his greatest gift of all, the killing curse! What a _wonderful_ man!" His fingers flexed around the hilt of his wand.

"You ungrateful little brat! I _made_ you. You would have been _nothing_ without me, yet you dare to oppose me when I am trying to save our skins?" Tom snarled, his shoulders raised like hackles.

"We have a bargaining chip now. We can negotiate with him," Arabella interrupted, trying to interject reason into the discussion.

"He's a being like any other, and in all fairness he's hardly killed anyone who hasn't attacked him first. We came to save the children, I'm not going to give up on them just like that," added Harry snapping his fingers.

"Stop it, you're not helping, either of you," Arabella ordered, rising from her seat. "This is a decision for the village, not just for a couple of strangers."

Tom looked at her, eyes blazing. "You have no _idea_ who I am. I decide what happens and when it happens. If I wanted to I could rip through every single person in this place and it would not even give me a moment's pleasure. It would be _too_ easy. When I say there will be no negotiation I mean that there will be _no_ negotiation."

"Stand down Tom," Harry warned softly. "Arabella, if you want a chance to save the children and the lives of these people by any other means than this ritual I'd go now. I know it's a lot to ask, but …"

"You are not going anywhere," Tom stated, His wand flicked outwards and the door to the nave merged into the wall, sealing them in. "No-one is going anywhere until this is done."

"Riddle," Harry began.

Tom whirled on him, teeth bared, " _Don't call me that!_ "

"Tom then. I'm not saying that this isn't what we'll have to resort to, but death shouldn't be the first course of action. Arabella, remember to make him take a binding oath, he's not human, but it should work. If you fail send up some kind of warning and we'll activate the ritual," Harry said calmly, levelling his wand at Tom.

Tom's eyebrows rose momentarily, "You are going to fight me over this?"

"Isn't that my job? No though. I'm just going to ensure Arabella gets to have a shot at talking instead of fighting … and if that means fighting you then isn't it just my lucky day?" Said Harry. He flicked his wand to the side in a swift jerk, a bolt of electric blue energy hit the sealed door and rebounded faster still. Tom leapt out of the way just in time as the spell impacted upon the outer wall. For a moment nothing changed and then with a soft tearing noise as if it were a sheet of paper the wall split apart letting in a gust of cool night air. The stones slid aside like water, remoulding themselves into an archway.

"Stop. This is madness," Tom began, and for a moment it sounded as if he were pleading. "You are endangering all our lives in the hope that you are right. Your desire to be a hero could kill us all," he insisted, moving into Arabella's path.

Harry grimaced. 'You know I hate to do this …" he said, and smashed his fist into Tom's face. The blow, though a surprise, was relatively light, but Tom staggered nonetheless. "Damn it. That always hurts," Harry complained rubbing his bruised knuckles, "right, Arabella, go."

She scrambled through the gap in the church wall as Harry turned to face Tom again, his wand at the ready. She glanced back for a moment, Tom was rising, silhouetted against the candle light. The church wall resealed as Harry surrendered his momentary advantage to seal it. She was alone, outside the church with only the thin shield of the wards between her and the forest. To the east the faint blush of sunrise was just visible through the trees. Pulling herself together and mustering her courage she called out to the trees, requesting parley.

* * *

Raw magic fuelled by Tom's fury lashed out towards the church wall in a bolt of crackling fire. Harry parried, a small, concave shield devouring the power Tom fed into the blow, dispersing it. Tom growled and with a flick of his wand the bolt of fire died away.

"Get out of my way Boy. I can stop this, don't do this," Tom said slowly, trying to keep calm.

"I can't. We have to chance it."

"So be it," Tom lunged, a flagstone flew from the floor launching itself towards Harry. As the boy parried Tom stabbed forwards a jet of indigo light flashing across the room. Harry parried again, ripping the flagstone out of the air with a twitch of his wand to catch the jet of light. The magic struck the stone with a clap of thunder and the air rippled under the force of the blow.


	15. The Oldest King

**The Oldest King**

The stone floor of the church was hard on old bones, though the villagers had done what they could to make their sleep more comfortable it had done little good. Johan lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes scanned the old, dark. He had seen Arabella half walk, half stumble from the room, heading up into the belfry, and wondered why. Then he had heard the news: his son, Frederick, was dead. He hoped that Frederick and Isolde, Frederick's mother and his own late wife, would be together. The years stretched ahead of him, cold and lonely.

The words had been a sudden blow, leaving him numb. Only once he had been set down upon a pew by a bystander had he realised that tears were running down his face. Now he lay with his waist-coat over him, like a blanket or a grave cloth. His breathing, which had come in painful ragged gasps, was steadier now. There was a pit where his stomach should have been, a growing emptiness.

He had been awake, when the boy, Harold or something like that, left the main hall of the church. Soft light spread from the doorway, flowering, blossoming over the floor for a moment before it was cut off again. Johan wondered if he should join them, they were presumably being proactive. Lying in the darkened church, waiting, was intolerable. He had never, to his shame, wished harder that his son had not been gifted with magic. If not for that his boy might have been sheltering in safety

He groaned and sat up stiffly, pulling his waistcoat off his chest he put it on; the bright red was a light grey in the dim light streaming through the narrow windows of the church. With an effort he hauled himself to his feet. If he was entirely honest with himself his age was not the problem; by the standards of wizards he was barely passing out of middle age, but his expanding waistline was becoming more and more of a problem. He set off slowly down the nave trying to find Vanessa or one of the other council members to discuss matters with.

In the faint starlight it was almost impossible to pick anyone out amid the deep shadows. The windows themselves were less useful than they had been, largely obscured now by the thick leaves of the forest which surrounded them. Once it had been a friendly neighbour, he had played there himself as a boy, now though …

A hand grasped his arm as he passed one of the thick, grey stone pillars which lined the aisle. The shock made him jump and he let out a small squeak, fumbling for his wand. He had only just found it when the owner of the hand spoke.

"Shush. I'm sorry for startling you, that was not my intention," said a voice in clipped German, an English accent tingeing the words.

"I … I am sorry, I did not see you there, it came as something of a surprise," Johan answered quietly.

"I do apologise," said the other man smoothly, stepping out from behind the pillar, releasing Johan's arm, "I just wanted to talk to you. Perhaps we might go somewhere where we will not disturb the others?" He smiled gently.

"Certainly, but shouldn't we join the discussion. I'd imagine it must be important," Johan blustered, trying to pull away and move towards the side chapel. He thought he could faintly hear Arabella's voice along with those of the two Englishmen. He knew that he ought to talk to her, Frederick and she had been very close.

The other man smile gently, "Indeed. However, I would very much like a chat … now." He took Johan by the arm again and led him through the sleepers. Johan wondered about making a noise or struggling, but they were all in this together, so what harm could come of it?

The Englishman made a small sweeping motion with his wand and muttered something under his breath. There was no visible effect, though for an instant Johan thought that he heard a low buzz around them.

"What was that?" Johan asked sharply. He felt uncomfortably aware that they were the only two awake in this part of the church, and that he had no reason to trust any of these Englishmen.

"Just checking that they are all in good health," the man assured him, pushing open the door to the belfry. "Do come on, what I have to tell you could be a matter of life or death."

"Just who are you?" Johan demanded as he was led slowly up the staircase, round and round, spiralling higher and higher into the tower. "I can't seem to remember your name. You're the auror aren't you?"

"It doesn't really matter, most people call me Richard, for the moment anyway," the other man replied. His footsteps, Johan noticed, hardly made a sound. _Probably an enchantment_ , he reflected. _An odd enchantment to have though, the sort of thing you'd expect a spy to have. I suppose an officer of the law can do with being stealthy too._

They emerged onto the first floor of the belfry, the ropes dangled downwards, thick, twisting cords which sunk through the floorboards overhead and below. Above them, only a floor up lay the bell chamber where the old, iron bell rested. Around them drifted broken scraps of torn and tattered light, fluttering like dying butterflies in an invisible breeze.

"What … what happened here?" Johan asked, the room was clogged with uncoiling magic. It swarmed around them, clambering over them, sinking through them in a mass of cascading sensations. He trusted neither eyesight nor touch; hearing, taste and smell were all suspect now. It felt as if he had stepped into a whirlpool; he was half afraid that he would be dragged under in a moment if the magic truly took an interest in him.

"The shattered remnants of the ward matrix. It was the nexus of what held your defences in place," Richard replied, his voice reaching Johan's from a great distance, "come, it is best we do not stay here. I doubt they are very stable and Merlin knows what more magic in the area would do." Johan felt himself being half pushed, half pulled through the room.

They mounted the final set of stairs and, to Johan's great relief, left the magic laden chamber behind. Out of the corner of his eye it looked like some mammoth creature made of strands of mist. A thousand unnamed colours sparkled within it, and each thread was gently, slowly unravelling. Then they passed out of sight and he shut it from his mind.

The final room of the belfry was not particularly large, there was room for the bell to swing and a narrow walkway around it. Old dusty boards lined the floor. The windows were large, indeed the walls were little more than pillars to support the roof. The tree cover was lighter here too. Although the branches had stretched overhead during the night they barely met here. Johan could see the lightening sky in the east, a touch of lighter blue on the horizon, heralding the new dawn.

Richard released Johan's arm and stood back, looking over the low wall which ran beneath the glassless eastern window. "Dawn is ever the hope of man," he muttered.

"Sorry? I didn't quite catch that," Johan said looking the other man over. He was not particularly tall, but his broad shoulders left him with a build that few would wish to tussle with; his face was serious, set with a heavy brow and dark irises, both of which emphasised the whites of his eyes; his mouth a thin line, obscured by his heavy moustache; his hair-line was receding, though it still covered the majority of his scalp and reached down by his ears to join with his beard, a mixture of black and silver. He was not a threatening or imposing man, yet there was something in his face or figure which made Johan nervous. He sighed, giving up on his examination.

"Nothing of importance; merely a quotation which I hope holds true," Richard said.

"So … what do you want to tell me?"

Richard looked at him for a long moment. There was something sorrowful in that glance, or pitying perhaps. "Do you know who those two men are?"

"Harry and Tom?" Johan asked, breaking away from the stare and turning instead to look out from the window. The sea of trees was beginning to turn green as the morning light touched it.

"Yes."

"Not really, I just supposed they were with your ministry. An attempt to build bridges before all hell breaks loose?" Johan said, Richard was silent. "I hear France is threatening war, either that or Britain is stirring up trouble. No-one seems quite sure," he added, deciding not to mention that most thought Britain was at fault. The tendency to warmonger and the manner in which a series of wars had led to the expansion of its territories left many with the feeling that whenever there was a conflict the British were probably to blame. Richard looked at him for a moment, and Johan shifted uncomfortably.

"Indeed. You are right on each and every point. That does not, however, answer _who_ they are. Their connection to the Ministry is temporary, a matter which will be rectified. Do you want to know who they are?" Richard asked, his fingers running over the stones of the wall.

"Do I have much of a choice? You dragged me up here after all," Johan grumbled, thrusting his hands into his pockets. The chill morning air was biting and he itched to return to the others. Any moment wasted here could mean disaster, he was sure of it.

"Everyone always has a choice," Richard stated simply. "You can wait to hear what I am going to tell you, or you go down now," he shrugged, "it makes little difference to me."

"You've dragged me up here, I'll listen."

"Good," Richard gave a small, tight smile. "They are relics of a bygone era. Harry, as you know him, is Harry James Potter. He is the one time leader of the terrorist organisations known as the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore's Army. He waged war against the British Ministry at the turn of the twenty-first century …"

"But he looks as if he's in his twenties! He's a boy for God's sake …"

Richard continued unperturbed, looking out over the parapet, "He has been granted a temporary pardon provided he brings the perpetrators of these and other crimes to justice. Needless to say he is too dangerous to actually pardon. Tom is, in truth, Tom Marvolo Riddle. He is better known as Lord Voldemort, one time ruler of the British Empire and its provinces …"

Johan's face paled, "You brought a Dark Lord and a terrorist to my village? To help? Are you insane? Oh my God, Ara is with them. We need to help her!"

"Please, sir, be quiet," Richard requested politely, his deep voice rumbling. He folded his hands behind his back. "Yes, they were sent here; though not entirely on purpose, and for the record," a look of distaste flashed over his features, "Tom is, one might say, an ex-Dark Lord. Although he has already killed here …"

"What?" Johan gasped, sitting himself on the wall, his fingers grasping at the stones.

"Indeed. Frau Kauperman was, I believe, unfortunate enough to annoy him. He holds some rather old-fashioned views you must understand. Which is why the Ministry believes that he needs to be removed, along with the boy. _That_ is where you and I come in …"

"I'm sorry, I don't understand why you are telling me this …" Johan interrupted, his instincts were telling him to run but Richard was standing before the door.

Richard sighed, looking over Johan's shoulder at the very first blush of dawn as the blue began to be tinged with gold and crimson, "It was not supposed to go this way. The boy chased after an unintended red-herring. The threat that they are intended to face lies to the south. They must arrive friendless and without allies. I am relatively sure that they will escape this mess, which means that I am required to ensure they will have no shelter here in the long run …" he paused apologetically, "which means, unfortunately, that I need you to die. Your death can point to them in some inconclusive way, eating away at any trust they might build here. It is essential really."

Johan blinked slowly as he tried to reach surreptitiously for his wand, "Why tell me all this if you're just going to kill me? Who are you in any case? You're not an auror."

Richard looked at him steadily, "Because you deserve to know _why_ you are going to die. After all, I am not a monster. I _was_ an auror once, but times change. I was moved on for higher things, a new way to serve my country."

Johan's finger's closed around his wand and he drew it in a single motion. He was too slow though. Richard's hand moved from behind his back in a blur, twisting Johan's arm to the side before his other hand pried the wand from the older man's grip.

" _Petrificus totalus_ ," Richard said calmly, holding Johan's frozen body steady so that it would not fall. "You know, I really hoped that you would not make a fuss. There wasn't any point anyway. From the moment I cast the spell downstairs they could not hear us. I really am sorry about this you know, but in any war there are casualties."

He took a small slip of black, torn cloth from his robe and pressed it into Johan's frozen palm before erasing any evidence of his own part in the matter. Then, levitating Johan to his feet he smiled his small smile once more and pushed the older man over the edge of the parapet, watching him plummet to the ground, head first. The counter spell for petrification hit the man before he hit the ground and after Richard had wiped the wand clean of prints he dropped it after the corpse. Humming tunelessly he began to descend the tower.

He was half way down the final set of stairs when the first wave of magic washed over him. It felt as though the world had shifted under his feet, he staggered, clinging to the wall. The swelling surge was almost physical in the shock it sent through him. To one sensitive to magic the manner in which a witch or wizard might cast a spell could be compared to opening a tiny valve in a dam and watching the water sweep away an obstacle; if the water were magic, the valve were the spell and the obstacle an element in the natural order. This felt as though someone had just tried to open up every sluice gate the dam had.

The stones under his feet seemed to writhe like living animals of glistening rock. The air sung and tugged at him, the light whispered in his ears. Richard closed his eyes, ignoring the sensations, carefully guiding himself down the steps. Whoever was doing this needed to be stopped; the village was too saturated with magic as it was. He made his way through the nave of the church, breaking the charms which he had cast in an effort to compensate. He might as well not have bothered, it was like trying to bail out a ship with a thimble.

He opened his eyes, some of the villagers, those lacking any affinity with seemed unbothered, and confused. The others though were struggling under the pressure, some were holding their heads; others were writhing on the ground as they fought half-visible creatures; a few were attempting to draw circles of protection.

The epicentre of the magic was coming side room, the first spark in a forest fire. The door to the room was fading in and out of existence. He could feel it lashing out from there, in pulses like the rapid beats of a heart, growing closer and closer together. He pushed forward through the throng, batting aside the real and unreal figures with his hands until he could grasp the door handle. It flickered under his fingers: a snake one moment, with poisonous orange scales, curling up his arm; a flame the next, he yelped in pain as it flared under his touch but did not let go, ice, thorns mist, each form appeared and disappeared as it attempted to shake him off before it reverted to solid brass.

As he opened the door a wind rose against him beating over his robes and skin. As he turned the knob the door faded between worlds and opened onto a vast hall of white crystal. The hall was filled with people made of frosted glass, tiny brass cogs spinning in their bodies as they paid homage to a king on an icy throne. As the door opened they turned and looked at Richard with hard, obsidian eyes. He slammed the door shut, sweating. He waited until it was solid once more before opening it quickly, this time it opened into the church's antechamber.

Standing in the centre of the room were two figures wreathed in interweaving magic, trapped in the epicentre of the storm. The power raged around them, unable to earth itself. He only glanced at the scene for a moment before making up his mind. He rugby-tackled the closest of, sending him careering into the other. The magic paused, the flow suddenly cut off and then with a howling crackle it imploded. For an instant it felt as though the church were being drawn into a single point within the room, then with the sound of shattering crystals there was nothing. The air still trembled with an overload of energy, but the church and its contents were stable. Richard sighed in relief.

He sat up slowly, Harry and Tom seemed somewhat disoriented now that the magic was no longer coursing around them. A small crowd of villagers were gathering at the doorway, some clung to the stonework as if to reassure themselves that it was real. He looked around. "Where's the girl? Where's Arabella?"

* * *

The forest was silent as Arabella waited, wondering if the Erlking would respond to her call for an audience. Could the trees even understand her request? She worried at her lower lip. She clenched her fingers tighter around the rowan wood of her wand, trying desperately to control the urge to go back into the church and let someone else deal with it. From inside the church she thought she might be able to hear the sound of shouting, but the thick walls left the sound muted and almost inaudible. There were more important things to think about.

A rustling spread through the leaves, rippling over them like the wind. The trees gradually moved aside, although her eyes did not catch the movement, revealing a pathway which led away deep into their midst.

She hesitated for a moment and a child's voice spoke from out of the shadow of the trees. It spoke in a monotone without any childish intonations, "Do not fear. If you have truly come to parley he will do no harm to you. You will come and go untouched by all here. You will be safe, he swears this by the birds of the air and the trees of the forest."

Arabella swallowed her fear and gently drew her wand down through the wards. A slim opening appeared, like a slice from the rind of an orange. Stepping through, she mended the hole in the wards and walked down the pathway. It was strange; the earth had been churned and torn by the tree roots as they moved and was soft and moist underfoot. The village was still there, although why she had half imagined it would not be she was not quite sure. However, during the course of the night it had been enveloped by foliage. Ivy crawled over walls and windows; bushes and shrubs bloomed luxuriantly, their shapes wild and strange; ancient trees grew where pavements had been, and all around there was no sound of human life.

She realised that she was holding her breath and slowly let it out, unconsciously trying not to break the silence of the wood. Before her the path widened. At the very edge of where the village had once ended stood a tall figure. To begin with she thought it was merely a stunted tree or post. As she grew closer she realised that what she had taken for the trunk was in fact a folded mantle of soft, grey bark which overlapped and covered its owner. His head was crowned by three jagged flint-stones, and his flesh was made from interwoven grasses, like glossy, green muscles exposed without skin to hide them.

_Welcome_ , said a voice in her mind which thrummed with the beating of the rain on leaves, and the cawing of crows. W _elcome child of man. Why do you come to me now? Now when I could destroy you with a thought? Is it to beg for mercy?_

The smug, self-satisfaction in the words galled her, but she suppressed the irritation. "I ... I have come to talk. I mean negotiate with you," she said, cursing herself inwardly for being unable to hide the tremble in her voice.

_Negotiate? I fail to see how negotiation can occur when one side has nothing to offer that the other cannot take._ Around them children wandered from amidst the trees. They were dirty and scruffy. Their faces held neither joy nor fear, sorrow nor excitement; they looked like poorly made masks.

"You have taken a great deal. You have taken children, you have taken our homes, and you have taken lives …" she choked down a sob, blinking rapidly. Straightening up she looked him in the eye, there was, something like curiosity on his face. She met the gaze firmly now, her grief giving her strength.

_What have you lost that affects you so? The pain is written in the very air around you._ The Erlking swept a long, many jointed hand through the air as if running his fingers over something in fascination.

She hesitated, unsure of whether she wanted to let him know, before answering, "You killed a dear friend of mine. We could kill you now if we wanted. I dearly want to, but we're not going to … unless we have to," she stated firmly, turning her wand in her hand, trying to hide her anxiety.

_That is tragic_ , he replied softly. _Was he a potential mate? Do accept my deepest apologies if he was. I would not snatch a young mate away from any creature if it could be helped._

"No, he was … he was just a friend, and he died for no good reason." She paused for a second, "Why though? You seem intelligent, why attack us?" She asked, almost pleading, suddenly desperate for some kind of answer.

_I have no love for death, but I deal it when I must. Does the hunter talk to the rabbit?_

"He does when the rabbit is carrying explosives!" She snapped, "We _can_ destroy you. I promise you that.

_So you claim. An awfully strange claim for a girl who has not done so yet, though it would be in her best interest … which suggests that you want something from me. Why else try to negotiate? The only thing is … why should I believe you?_ He asked, slowly prowling around her. His long, mantle flowing over the ground behind him. _You who burn my trees, who would prevent me from listening to the dreams of children …_

"You have killed, you've stolen and kidnapped! Don't try and take the moral high ground now!" She ordered.

He shrugged, _I will not pretend that I have not, but this war was not started by me._ He pointed a long, twisted finger at her. _Your people, your ancestors struck the first blow when they brought fires and axes to my trees._

"Fine, so we're both to blame, but we are not our ancestors! In any case, can you take the risk that we can't destroy you?" She began, her fingers clenched against her palm. "All I want, all we want, is make a bargain … your life for the lives of the children. Return them to us, take no more and swear a truce and this is over," she promised, turning in a circle to watch him. He moved like a cat, softly and silently. His shadow slipped alongside him, dancing in the dawn light, a strange thing of many parts.

_Really? Yet every fibre of you yearns for revenge. Do you not want to avenge your friend? He screamed so much when he died, they all screamed_ so _much_ , he said, his words caressing each syllable.

She looked at him eyes narrowed, "You can try to provoke me all you like. It won't make a difference. No matter how much I want revenge some things come first, and saving innocent lives is among them."

_A pity … emotions are such sweet things. Even adult ones can have their place_ , he sighed, and it was the sighing of the wind. _Still though you give me no evidence that you can indeed destroy me … I have shown my power. Will you not show yours?_ His tone was cajoling, gentle even.

"If you want to find out what it is so that you can defend against it then don't bother," she answered, her tongue flicked out to wet her lips. She could feel her heart beating hard in her chest. She prayed that Harry and Tom were prepared to act at a moment's notice.

_Ah, those two. I should have known they would survive. They had that flavour to them._ He chuckled, and it was the rattling of the branches in the trees. _You should know that they are not to be trusted little one._

"You looked into my mind!" She gasped in shock, anger displacing her fear, "how dare you! I know that Potter isn't to be trusted, so try a new trick and give up."

_I only looked into you at the most superficial of_ levels, he answered, spreading his arms in placating gesture. I _have done you no harm. Indeed I have done you a favour. As for those two I would not be swift to trust either. There are currents there a little Rabbit such as you should not swim in. I know men and I know magicians, neither are to be trusted, and these two least of all. Now though I_ know _I may believe you. There are few guards against such magic. I recognise the power you have behind you … let us bargain my Rabbit._ He smiled slowly, the expression splitting open his face.

"Okay. You know that we can destroy you: surrender to our terms and you may leave here unharmed. Leave us … leave our kind, in peace," she declared, as confidently as she could.

He tilted his head, looking at her almost kindly. _No._

"No?" She asked, a touch of nerves creeping into her voice. "You said … well thought … well whatever you did: how can two sides negotiate when one can crush the other?"

_Ah, but I hold the thing you desire. If you were to crush me, as you so crudely put it, then you would lose them. Each. And. Every. Single. One. Try again Rabbit._ He straightened up turning away from her to draw the children closer around him. They scuttled closer, clinging to his mantle as to a mother's apron.

Arabella hesitated trying to ignore the world around her. "Listen, the first thing you need to do is withdraw your trees, birds, everything from the village. At the moment they have no idea whether you are negotiating or not. If you don't concede some ground they might well presume things have gone badly and strike."

The Erlking paused in consideration. _There is wisdom there. I will do as you suggest._ He waved his long arms in a flowing gesture and the trees began to flow around them, back into the forest. _You should know, however, that this land is mine. I walked here long ago before your kind came and stole it from me and mine._

"I understand, but times have changed and we both need space to live," she insisted.

_Your people spread like a plague, Rabbit. It was halted for a time, but I would not be surprised to see the day come when you burn this world in your search for new breeding grounds,_ the Erlking warned.

"We're not animals! We don't breed …" she objected.

_Really? Then I suppose that these are not children. Dear me, dear me,_ he murmured, his eyes glinting maliciously.

She sighed, deciding not to argue, she was too tired for this. Her wand twitched at her side with the urge to try and strike him down. "What do you need out of this deal then? You know what we want."

He leaned his head back at an angle impossible for humans, evidently trying to give the impression of consideration. _You are entitled to speak for your folk?_

"I am not the only one with a voice, but I will make preliminary agreements with you," she replied warily.

_Then I suppose that must serve for_ _now,_ he sighed softly. _These are my terms: you will destroy no alder or elder tree and you will do your best to protect them from others in this land; you will not hunt or harm me or use your weapon against me unless I strike against you; you will give me one child to care for per month between the ages of three and twelve years …_

"No. We can't do that, you can't have the children," she declared stubbornly, "that is non-negotiable."

_It is why I waged this campaign. If I cannot take the children will you let me enter your village and consume the dreams of the sleeping? I swear no harm will come to them_ , he promised extending a long, arm to her as if to shake her hand and seal the pledge. The leaves of the trees around them fluttered hopefully and the children looked up with wide, hopeful eyes. She flinched, their pupils were a bright living green.

She hesitated for a moment, the tide of trees was slowing now, petering out. The village, though damaged was, empty. "If it can be proved no harm will be done you will be given safe passage past the wards," she said grudgingly. "You must return the bodies of the dead too, for burial."

_Certainly. Finally, though I will release the children from my thrall you will allow me to plant my power inside each ninth child. Thus will I know that you will not break your promise and attempt to slay me. They will be free to do and act as they please ... but if I die, they die. Agreed?_ He held out his hand once more.

Arabella looked at him with distaste, "You are a monster. Did you know that?"

He laughed again, long and hard this time, and the trees echoed with the sound. _So I have been told. Do we have a deal, little Rabbit?_ In the shadows of his skull his eyes glinted like two tiny green stars.

* * *

Harry blinked slowly, gazing up at the ceiling. It was he realised, remarkably pretty: cream coloured paint with slender dark beams. He smiled vaguely. He was relatively sure he had been doing something important. There was a voice asking him something, what it was asking he wasn't entirely certain, it sounded vaguely important. He tried to concentrate but the words slipped away from him.

"... girl … come on …" the voice was gruff, vaguely familiar.

"Not a girl," Harry muttered trying to answer whatever it was he was being asked, "I'm not a girl."

There was a sigh, "He's totally out of it. How is his lordship doing?"

"Better, but not much. They're both a bit out of it. The backlash must have hit them pretty hard," an English female voice commented, Harry thought it might be that of the last of Richard's aurors, "what should we do sir?"

"Look, I'm fine," Harry interrupted sitting up, "I was out of it, now I'm back. All sorted. What do you want to ask Tom and I?"

"It's 'Tom and _me_ ' actually," said Tom from his left.

"Look, I've just been the victim of … what did you say it was?" He asked the young auror.

"A magical backlash," she answered swiftly.

"Thank you ..." he searched for her name.

"Kitty, sir," she supplied, realising what he was wondering.

"Thank you Kitty. I've been the victim of a magical backlash, so there," he repeated. "Give me a break Tom."

"Indeed you have. So was I, yet I seem capable of expressing myself where you are not," Tom remarked coolly. He was leaning casually against the wall, relaxed as ever. "As to the question of where the girl is, Arabella has gone to negotiate. I ... I mean the three of us," he corrected himself, "decided it was the best chance at getting the children back," he gave a tight smile. "Harry and I remained behind to prime our one and _only_ weapon against this foe."

Harry looked at him speechless, his mouth hanging open again for the second time in the last twelve hours. "Wh …"

"Your mouth is moving and sound is coming out Potter. I would do something about that if I were you. Now Richard," Tom strode across the room and grasped the broad shouldered man by the shoulder, "if you would be so kind as to step outside …" He propelled Richard through the door, gesturing for the female auror to follow him. "Incidentally if you should see my new cloak anywhere bring it by. Now we have work to finish." He shut the door with a click, locked it and turned to Harry with a smile.

"What in the name of Morgana le Fey are you doing?" Harry asked, bemused.

When Tom spoke it was the hiss of Parseltongue, "I am ensuring that we are seen to be on the same side. They need confidence right now, they need to feel that things are under control, or else we might as well have attacked before she left." Tom's wand seemed about to move, perhaps to ward the room, but he thought better of it. The air was still too heavy with magic for so many enchantments.

For a moment or two Harry simply blinked at him, then he answered in Parseltongue, "Fine, I can see the logic in that, but what do we do now? And Tom?"

"Yes?"

"When did you start thinking about other people?"

"I have always cared about people," Tom said. Then with somewhat more candour he added, "When they started to increase my chances at survival that is. Riots are not good for my health. Anyway, now we simply need to sit tight and wait. The wards should last a few more hours. If nothing happens after two hours we start the ritual and pour all the magic in this building into burning him and everything connected to him to a crisp," Tom replied, conjuring a chair, somewhat less ostentatious, and somewhat more comfortable than usual for him. With a second wave of his wand the wall melted into glass, revealing the forest beyond. Evidently his concern about a second magical fallout was not too great.

"You knew all along that doing the spell would kill the children?" Harry asked, still sitting upon the floor. He reached his hands up, running them through his hair, trying to grasp it.

"Of course. I admitted there was a relatively low chance of their survival to mitigate the disappointment. I'm not quite sure I see the problem," Tom said, confusion flashing over his face. "It was the least risky option. He could still order his forces to attack us before he dies, depending upon how the magic works, which I have to point out is an unknown variable. We might all die because of giving him this chance. I might die," he said, steepling his fingers as he leaned back in the chair. "You might die, come to that," he added as an afterthought.

"Thank you for your concern, it's very touching," said Harry dryly.

They waited in silence as the minutes ticked past. Tom reclined in his chair with his eyes closed, idly spinning his wand in one hand, apparently oblivious to the world around him. Harry sat, cross legged on the floor, staring out through the frosted glass enchantment, hoping against hope that there would be some sign. Arabella was presumably alive he thought, the wards had not fallen. They really ought not to have sent out the keystone of their main defence. He did not know how long it would take for the ritual to work, but he would have been happier if he had known that they would be shielded during it.

Harry's reverie was broken suddenly by Tom. "It has been a good fight throughout these years. Thank you," the older man said peaceably.

"Oh, erm, thanks, I guess," Harry replied, trying not to think about what that meant.

Outside the trees began to withdraw. It was day and the sun was shining down.

* * *

The mist writhed and twisted as Ivaldi marched into the small encampment where the goblin hunters waited for their last orders. He was clad in intricate silver armour which seemed to melt into the grey air. The goblins who sat among the tents leapt to attention as their watchman spied Ivaldi approaching.

They too wore silver armour, but it had been left to tarnish until its surface was a murky black. It served a two-fold purpose: firstly, to warn any who crossed them that their business was one which no payment could stop, they were not to search for gold, silver or blood, only death; secondly, to remind them of their task, until it was completed they would not allow their armour to shine again.

The armour was light by goblin standards with only half-helms on their heads, skirts of ringmail descending down their necks; though their long, delicate fingers were clad in the finest plate, inscribed with dozens of minute runes and carvings, each fingertip ending in a retractable, hooked, steel claw for if, or when, other weapons failed. They carried few weapons too, most had a personal selection, but beyond that they only carried crossbows, swords and daggers.

The mist wound itself tighter around them as Ivaldi approached. Behind them the trees of the forest loomed. Goblins are not tall by any standards, but standing beneath the huge, spreading beech trees which lined the beginning of the woods they seemed little larger than mice amongst men. There were a dozen of them, Ivaldi not included, and he was to return to Stuttgart to prepare in case their prey was to evade or defeat them. Goblins never take risks; their logic asks why should one prepare only one poisoned dish when you could serve two?

Ivaldi strode along the line, glancing over each one. They were prepared, he was sure of it. He had handpicked them himself, each was a master of his art, crossbows, knives, swords, daggers, poisoned darts and even pistols were all represented here. He ran a long tongue over his sharp filed teeth.

"You know what to do. Kill the thief and all who travel with him. The only price is death! The only sentence is death! Death is the penalty," he rasped, his voice sounded like the sharpening of the executioner's axe. "You _will_ do our kind proud. The king himself has taken an interest in ensuring that this debt is paid. He has sent you a gift to ease your task ..." He snapped his fingers, the long, supple digits cracking together.

There was a stirring in the mists as they were forced into eddies and. Then, from the shadowy paths of the wood padded two of the largest hounds the goblins had ever seen. They were, in appearance something like a wolfhound or a deerhound, but with more of the wild and the feral about them, they were five feet tall at the shoulder; their shoulders were thick and broad, heavy with muscle and sinew; their fur was grey, but it was the ethereal grey of storm clouds or sea mists; their eyes were golden, softly glowing in the early morning light, and their claws were long, black talons.

"These are two of the Hounds of the Morning. They can track a man a hundred leagues simply from his scent upon the wind. They will find him for you. Ensure that they feed often, and only on the living. There will be a village to the north of here, pass through there, and onwards to a place named Altewald. That is where we last heard he was. Do you understand me?"

They nodded.

"Then go. Return only in blood, gore and the restored honour of our kind," he ordered, and as they turned to move into the forest a vicious grin split his face. He turned and began to retrace his steps to where his transport was waiting. The flicker of flames blossomed from the mist some distance away and a low, rumbling roar shivered in the air.

They ran into the woodlands, their gait was easy and loping, and the hounds of the morning ran before them, scenting the air. Great paws pounded the leaf mould sending up scatters of beech nut husks and leaves, twigs and branches snapping underfoot. The goblins ran silently, their feet barely touching the ground as they moved. Around them were the long, straight, grey trunks of the beech trees, marred in places by thick green moss. The leaves, some copper, some green, melded overhead.


	16. The Village

**The Village**

_Altewald:_

The next few hours were a blur for Harry as the villagers picked out those they felt capable of negotiating with the Erlking. In the mean timeTom grudgingly taught a handful of villagers the ritual required to destroy the creature through the wooden triskelions. Harry and he had pried the wood from their hands, an act which Harry felt deserved more recognition than it had received. The slow writhing of the blood stained roots had left him without an appetite.

Harry was not entirely comfortable seeing the Erlking, tall and crowned, at the edge of the woods like a Jack O'Green made flesh. The villagers were not particularly happy that they had to negotiate with it; the deaths of several of their friends and neighbours to its attacks had left them thirsty for revenge. However, the impassioned response of the parents swiftly quashed the more warmongering voices, though Harry could feel the glares from those who blamed the outsiders for the failure of the wards and the subsequent deaths. He could not entirely blame them. It would have been wiser, he reflected to ask for back up when they had gone back to Stuttgart.

The forest had withdrawn, though most were reluctant to re-enter their homes. The beams and timbers had apparently come alive the night before; now many looked unsafe, almost derelict, as if the village had been empty for a decade rather than a night. Those who had ventured towards the road had found little more than an earth track with only occasional lumps of torn tarmac rearing like black standing-stones.

Richard Thorbecombe and his assistant, Kitty, seemed to have decided that it was their duty to guard the village's ambassadors and so spent most of the day standing to attention near the talks. Occasionally Richard wandered amongst the villagers, lending a helping hand. Harry himself had little to do and had no wish to wander anywhere near the Erlking. He sat quietly on the steps of the church, and drew patterns in the dust with his wand whilst others bustled around him. Tom drifted by from time to time making pointed remarks to the effect that violence was only the last resort of the foolish; that the wise got around to it earlier, and that they were incredibly lucky to still be breathing at all.

Arabella seemed to be avoiding them altogether. Once the ambassadors for the village had been decided upon she had left the main square. When he asked the villagers they could only suggest that she might have gone to rectify the issues with the wards, or that she could have returned to her own house.

Harry sat quietly on the lowest step and waited for something to happen. It was a surprise to notice that he rarely saw the aftermath: go in, do the job, slay the dragon and leave someone else to pick up the pieces. He looked up, wondering if a dragon might obligingly appear, nothing happened. He felt oddly useless; repair work had not begun on the houses, and his rudimentary skills when it came to healing charms had left him less useful than a sack of potatoes, which could at least have been eaten.

Eventually the children, who had flocked around the Erlking like kittens to their mother, were released from his enchantments. They came pouring back to their parents, brothers, sisters, grandparents, and families in general. If they were worse for wear they did not show it, except for a thicker layer of dirt than may be commonly expected on small children. Harry was one of the few who did not leap up to greet them, partially out of a sense of social propriety; though, the memory of the hungry eyes and the flash of small, white teeth was still vividly imprinted on his mind. Despite his reluctance to approach them they showed no similar feeling: a small girl with dark brown hair broke away from her parents and skipped towards him.

"He has a message for you," she said earnestly.

Harry blinked nervously, rubbing the lenses of his glasses on a shirt he had recovered from Arabella's house earlier in the day. "Er, who precisely …?"

"The Oldest King," her voice was bland.

Harry shuddered. "Don't you think you should go back to your mother?"

"It will do you no good to ignore him. He will meet you once you have left this place," she said. Then her eyes wandered out of focus. She blinked confusedly and smiled brightly before turning and running away. Harry shuddered, for a moment he would have sworn that there had been a flash of vivid green in her brown eyes.

He watched her blithely skip back to her mother. He thumbed the hilt of his wand for a moment before standing up to go and find someone to suggest to that it would be a good idea to keep a weather eye on the children.

From the other side of the church there was a chocked cry of horror. He spun on his heel and dashed towards the noise, drawing his wand as he ran. A young couple were kneeling by a crumpled form dressed in a vivid, red waistcoat. The taller of the two detached his hand from his boyfriend's and sought for a pulse. Harry slowed to a stop, uncertain. He could see the morning dew glistening on the prone figure's greying hair. There was the sound of running feet and people milled around him. He stepped backwards, leaning against the wall of the church, fading into the background as other villagers appeared.

"Stand back! Stand back!" Came a shout from the crowd. Harry climbed up onto a low ledge of stone which ran around the church tower, holding onto an iron drain pipe to peer over the men and women gathered around the corpse.

Vanessa, the magical magistrate-cum-officer of the law, or ZauberWächter, crouched down by the body. She carefully moved her wand in small, precise motions, recording the details in a neat, black notebook. Something caught her eye and she shuffled forwards. She unfastened the corpse's grip and pulled free a thin strip of black cloth.

"What is it?" A newcomer asked from the back of the crowd trying to see what everyone was gathered around.

"Can't see, bit of rag I think," one watcher suggested.

"No, no. I mean, what is _happening_? Why is everyone gathering round like this? Is someone hurt?" The newcomer explained.

"It's Johan … I think he's dead," whispered someone from the crowd.

"What … how? I saw him safe in the church last night …"

There was a muted murmuring too low for Harry to hear distinct words, it spread in ripples through the crowd. Faces turned one by one to look towards him. Vanessa, too busy with the body, made no attempt to placate them. The whispers of "Do you think they did it?" and "They've brought nothing but bad luck," were growing louder. He jumped down from his perch, doing his best to ignore the stares, and made his way round the church looking for Tom.

Harry met Tom as the older man came out of the church. Tom twitched his cloak around his shoulders, fingers worrying at a small patch which appeared to have been ripped away. He was as tall and unbowed as ever but dark shadows lay heavily under his eyes making his face look skull-like. He half swept past Harry before the younger man caught him by the arm.

For a moment Tom appeared about to flinch away, but catching Harry's eye he allowed himself to be led aside.

"Do you have something to say?" He hissed, his voice sliding into parseltongue, "you seem anxious."

"We are leaving. Johan is dead. I think they think we did it, and those who don't aren't fond of us anyway," Harry replied his tongue slithering around the syllables in a sibilant hiss.

"You're always running from something aren't you?" Tom replied, his voice riddled with boredom.

Harry ignored the question, "Grow up. I want to get out of here soon, we've wasted too much time."

"Wasted? Why on earth do you say that?" Tom asked, eyes gleaming at a private joke.

"We've done a good deed and all, but this really seems to have been quite a small affair in comparison to whatever is going on in the south," Harry pointed out sourly. "Not to mention unconnected."

"Hardly unconnected," a thin smile spread over Tom's face as they rounded the corner of one of the houses. Down the dishevelled street Arabella was walking towards them, two thick books under her arm. "And here the connection," Tom finished smugly before catching sight of Harrys bemused expression. A smirk flickered at the corners of his lips. "Don't tell me it's slipped your mind?"

"I'm afraid the presence of eldritch creatures trying to kill us seems to have driven whatever it is from my head," Harry said wryly.

"Her brother is one of those unfortunates Malfoy informed us was taken," Tom paused for a moment before adding, "now would be an appropriate time to thank me."

Arabella drew level with them, and gave a curt nod.

Harry spoke up before she could pass by, "Arabella, might we have a word?"

She paused, reluctance flitting over her face. "Yes. What is it?"

He licked his lips, "Well you see … part of the reason we came was that there have been a number of other attacks in this region, albeit somewhat south of here."

"What does that have to do with me?" She asked him, then turning to Tom she continued, her voice tight, "I've looked into ways to get you back to Stuttgart, since normal magical means are still out. I suppose _you_ could fly out of here, if you're willing to carry your companions back to the city …"

Tom grimaced, "I think not. There is a limit to even my tolerance for helping others, and literally carrying them is that limit. Are there no brooms they could use?"

"None that the village can spare. Most seem to have been broken during the attack. We'll need the others to bring in food; at least until the roads are clear enough for traffic and apparition is possible again," Arabella explained, fidgeting slightly.

Harry interrupted, trying to refocus the conversation, "I need to know about your brother Arabella; the attacks in the south …"

She flinched, her eyes darting away from him, "I … he … we weren't close." Her expression flicked to relief as the heavy tread of boots heralded welcome relief, "Herr Thorbecombe, whatever is the matter? You look quite grim."

Richard joined them, adding to their little circle, he nodded politely to Arabella, his face grave, "I have some bad news ma'am, Johan Schmitt has been found dead, all the evidence suggests human agency. He appears to have died just before dawn. I believe you were close to him, I am so very sorry."

Arabella's skin lost what little colour it had; her mouth formed a small "o" of shock, and she rocked backwards on her heels as if struck. "What …?"

"It isn't clear, but several people in the village are blaming these gentlemen. Apparently they were not seen much last night … it might be wise to vacate the area before things turn ugly," he said, his hands folded neatly behind his back.

Tom shrugged as if to say, "what does it matter to me?" Harry nodded; Arabella blinked rapidly for a moment and followed suit, "Right. You wanted information on my … on Ambrose? I'll give you what I can, but I need a favour."

Tom's face twisted for an instant, "We saved your village little girl. Show some gratitude."

"I am not a 'little girl'," Arabella said coldly. "Now will you hear my request or do you want to wait for a mob to get you? I'm not really in the mood to tell anyone it couldn't have been you. Your innocence might just slip my mind."

Tom looked at her for a moment, eyes narrowed, calculating the likelihood that she was bluffing. Harry answered her first, "Fine, what do you want?" He turned to the auror, "Richard, get Kitty, we're going to leave as soon as possible."

Richard marched off with a curt nod, Harry flipped his attention back to Arabella. "Go on."

"I need to go to the capital. Someone needs to report all of this properly, and someone must make sure of vengeance for Johan. My trust in my neighbours is a little shaky right now," she said, "I'll answer any questions you have when we're there."

"Why not just go on your own?" Harry asked, "You've got the books, I'm sure you'd find a way."

"The only thing that might work now is a portal, and those require hefty sacrifices to open or close. I prefer my travel costs to be measured in hours, rather than lives …" she hiccuped, choking on the words. "It'd be safer to go in a group."

Tom chuckled, "As amusing an idea as that is, I really cannot see any reason for you to accompany us. It would seem our only course now is walking; we have no need of you for that. In any case you are hardly unique in your connection to a victim of this regrettable crime spree."

"On the other hand another wand could be useful if the Erlking or anything else were to attack us on the way," Harry pointed out mildly. "It isn't as if it would be any more problematic … Arabella, you're welcome to come with us."

Tom sighed, "Have it your own way. Let us be off. You have everything you need, Potter?"

Harry nodded again, "We'd better wait for Richard and Kitty here. Arabella if you need anything now would be the time to get it."

She gave a ghost of a smile, which failed to reach her eyes, and hurried off towards her house.

Tom leant back against the wall of a house. Harry, unable to entirely quash agitation at the idea of the villagers coming after them paced up and down. The idea of what Tom might do to anyone stupid enough to try and detain him was not a pleasant one. Tom watched Harry silently.

"This is why you should never help people: they always turn on you in the end," Tom said, shifting position against the worn, plaster facade.

"Takes one to know one," Harry answered brusquely.

"You know sometimes I hope for a little conversation. Something basic pleasantries," Tom said, his voice permeated with mock hurt, "and what do you give me?"

"Immortality?" Harry suggested.

"The question was rhetorical."

"Really?"

"Very amusing," Tom replied. "Didn't you ever grow up at all?"

Harry paused in his pacing, "I'd already grown up more by the age of eleven than most people have to in their entire lives; by the age of fourteen I was in a war, and a couple of years later I was leading it. A great man once asked what the point of being grown up was if you can't be childish sometimes. It was the wrong question, the point of being childish is to survive being grown up."

Tom raised his eyebrows, his lip curling, "I stand corrected, and _bow_ to your wisdom. Do cheer up, dear boy, we won this round."

"It's not a good sign that we actually have to point that out to ourselves is it? It says nothing for our track record," Harry said morosely.

"I couldn't really comment, _I've_ certainly enjoyed the adventures over the years. Though I will admit that I cannot remember many which ended as bloodlessly as this."

"Bloodlessly? We don't even know how many people died," Harry snapped.

"Well some survived, and both sides endured. I should think it must be a red letter day for you," Tom said with a small shrug.

* * *

_The Black Forest:_

The road was narrow, the surface cracked and torn by roots, ripped to shreds in places. It ran along the slope of a hill: to one side the bank rose up in a gentle slope, on the other the ground fell away. Small stones occasionally rolled down from the road over the leaf mould. The trees creaked in a low wind as they made their way down the road, picking their way over the torn tarmac. Tom and Harry led the small party by default, their refusal to let one another take the lead forcing them ahead. Richard, Arabella and Kitty followed slightly behind, ignoring the power play. The sun was dropping from its zenith, the blue sky surrounding it held the faintest hint of a haze.

"Are we nearly there yet?" Kitty asked, she had peeled off the outer layer of her robe, leaving only the lighter undercloth.

"Can't tell," Arablla replied, keeping her eyes on the road ahead. "The collapse of the wards will have spread the magic. We might be able to apparate once we reach Rehden, or it could be a few hours more than that. I doubt that we'd need to go further. Are you okay? You look a little warm."

"I'm not really very good with heat. I come from Northumberland …" Kitty blushed, embarrassed, "you probably don't know where that is, do you?"

"Not really, somewhere in the North?"

Kitty smiled, "That's about right …"

Harry tuned out from the conversation behind him. He glanced from side to side, scanning the trees for any sign of the Erlking's promised reappearance. He shuddered. "Tom there's something I ought to warn you about."

"What?"

"Well, I don't want you to overreact, but the Erlking might drop by at some point …"

A long, undulating howl cut through their conversation. It raised the hairs on the back of Harry's neck, the noise was almost human. The party froze, half paralyzed by the sound. The echoes died away slowly, fading to nothing.

"Where did that come from?" Tom asked, wand already drawn, as he scanned the surrounding trees.

"More to the point, what was it?" Richard muttered, his brow furrowed.

"Does it matter? I'd prefer not to find out. Arabella, is Rehden close? I'd like to get somewhere secure," Harry said.

"It's probably an hour's walk," Arabella replied.

"Then we'd better hurry."

A chill stole through the air as they approached the village. Though the sun had not sunk far a thin grey mist spilt outwards over the road and through the trees, blocking out the blue sky and hiding the sun. A stream ran at the boundary of the village, looping by an old, desolate mill. The wheel still clung to the wall, blades poking beyond its rim like slender fangs. Scraggly bushes scattered the ground, and thick dark moss crawled over the remainder, inching towards the road. The bridge across the streams was wooden, slick and dark. No sound came from the village.

Harry paused on the bridge, "More mist? That's _never_ a good sign. Something's wrong here."

No one bothered to contradict him. There was a quiet fumbling as they drew their wands. They drew closer together and slowly advanced into the village. Slowly a low lying shadow began to resolve itself at the edge of Harry's vision. It took half a dozen more steps for it to come fully into focus. He broke away from the rest of the group, running ahead, before dropping to his knees, knocking nearby can spinning. It was body of a child. It lay face down in a pool of semi-congealed blood. Harry gripped the corpse gently by the shoulder and teased it onto its back. It was a boy of around ten of eleven; his throat had been ripped open and a section of his cheek had been torn free.

Harry recoiled, his hand slipping slightly in the blood. He took a slow steadying breath. "We should get out of here." He looked round, Richard and Tom were still standing close by, but Arabella and Kitty were only dim shapes in the mist, bending over another body.

"These are teeth marks," Arabella called out, her voice travelling painfully well in the still air.

"I've found tracks here …" Kitty added, her voice faltered, "paw prints."

Harry paled as his eyes latched on to the prints which led away from the carcass. "Whatever made these … I think we really, _really_ don't want to meet it."

Tom was standing beside him in a moment. "Mr Potter, they are the footprints of a gigantic hound," he murmured, his lips twitching.

Harry swore softly before closing his eyes for an instant. "Do we carry on or try and go back?"

"Does it matter? We don't know where whatever did this is. The village may offer protection, maybe someone's still alive," Richard suggested, his normally level voice shook noticeably.

Harry tore his eyes away from the child's body and nodded. "No time to waste."

They walked slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible as they moved up the street. The doors to the houses had been smashed to smithereens, splinters of wood covered the pavement. They moved deeper into the village where the road parted around an oak tree, like a river around an island. Dark shapes were hanging amid branches, masked by the mist, mistletoe Harry supposed. There was a faint, rhythmic creaking from the tree's branches, at its foot lay another body, splayed out as if it had tried to run. Arabella looked away, her face taut.

"What could have done this?" She whispered.

Harry glanced around, searching for answers, the upper branches of the tree were clearer now that they were beneath it; the shapes had not been mistletoe after all. There were bodies swaying gently in the branches like obscene fruit.

"Whoever did _that_ had more than claws and teeth. Whatever was here must have been part of a group," he murmured detachedly. The others' eyes followed his gaze.

Arabella stumbled over to the tree, leant her weight against it and threw up. Vomit splashed over the roots. Tom stepped closer to the body, turning it over with the toe of his shoe. He gazed at it intently, his head cocked to one side.

"They were killed for sport. The wounds here," Tom gestured to pair of shallow slashes on the man's arm, "and here, are too light to have been made in an attempt to simply kill, and the angle is wrong for it to have been that he managed to deflect them. This was a hunt."

Arabella propped herself up on the tree trunk, wiping vomit from the corners of her mouth, "What … how do you know?"

"It used to be a hobby of mine," Tom answered with a small shrug.

"What?" Arabella began, startled.

"Shush, listen," Tom ordered. Through the mist came the sound of heavy paws padding slowly over the road. Harry turned around, back to back with Tom; Arabella, Kitty and Richard formed their own circle. All five had their wands drawn as they gradually revolved, peering into the cold, white air. A low growl began reverberating through the mists, coming from everywhere, impossible to pin down.

"It's toying with us," Tom murmured, "savouring the fear. When it strikes we must obliterate it. Killing curses are the best option. Those who can cast them ready yourselves. If we're lucky it will be alone …"

He was cut off again as the growl changed. It rose, shifting pitch, echoing off the walls of the houses as it became a rippling howl. Eventually the noise died away. They waited tensely, and then, perhaps a mile away there arose another howl, answering the first.

* * *

_Stuttgart:_

Mustaphar cut through the alleyway between the decaying blocks of flats, their high walls cutting out the sunlight. His staff clacked on the cobblestones as he followed the scent of magic to the gate of Stuttgart. Scrying had failed him, his prey had passed from sight; so, following the guidance of the runes, he had come to set his trap. As he had travelled west the stories had been gathering, he had heard half-forgotten fables which had changed and solidified as he drew closer. He suspected that he would need time to prepare.

He ran his staff over the air which hid the gateway and strode through. He paused just inside the gate and breathed in, his eyes closed. The world was older here. The smells of petrol, industrially manufactured steel, and plastic were gone; some smells remained, dogs, cats, dust and grim, but the pollution of the other world was gone, wiped away. The slight tremor of nerves vanished from his hand and a smile crossed his face slowly. He leant contentedly on his staff.

A voice broke through his reverie, "Sir? Sir? Excuse me sir? Would you mind moving on? You're in the way, if anyone should come through …"

"Of cours. Forgive me. It has been a long, long time since I was last here," he opened his eyes and winked at the guard before striding off down the street.

The stars above glinted softly in the violet sky. He paused at the first intersection and took a small bottle filled with thick, dark, red liquid from his robe. He pulled out the stopper and dipped in his finger before tracing a curving symbol on a nearby wall. He stepped back and checking that no-one was watching muttered a few words and tapped it with his staff. The liquid congealed and faded to brown before flaking and falling away. The Carpathian villagers had been so _very_ generous.

* * *

_Rehden:_

Harry made a split second decision. "Everyone, move together. We need to get to one of the houses. Richard, Tom, keep an eye out for any attack; Arabella, conjure a shield on our right; Kitty, do the same on our left," he finished, drawing his wand in a tight circle before thrusting it forwards, " _Ventus_." A breeze billowed outwards, pushing shreds of mist aside, forming a clearer channel before them. It did not reach far though: the mists pressed in, struggling against the spell.

A net of pale gold came from Arabella's wand, criss-crossing the air as they began to move, mirrored by Kitty with a thin, silvery shell of light, like the surface of a bubble. A growl came from their right and their heads twitched towards the noise; a huge, clawed paw struck against the silvery shell on the left, and with the sound of breaking glass it shattered. Kitty stumbled, her pupils dilating as her spell was ripped apart. There was a low rumbling from the mists.

"It's laughing at us," Tom observed.

"Do you know what it is?" Harry asked, breaking the breeze charm as he heaved Kitty to her feet.

"No," Tom replied brusquely," but we better hurry. Either our friend has company, or it has some power over the mist."

They pressed on. A minute passed, then two. "Shouldn't we have reached the houses?" Arabella asked. "They weren't far away."

Harry knelt, looking at the ground, it was the cold, hard tarmac of the road. Like most roads the surface sloped away from the centre, revealing the edges. "Come on, this way, the edge of the road can't be more than a couple of feet away."

They stepped forward and there was grass under their feet. They were in front of the oak. Harry stared at it hopelessly, the mist was thicker than ever.

There was a moment of stillness; then out of the fog barrelled a huge beast. Huge, grey jaws opened wide, revealing long, sharp white teeth. It charged towards them, twisting out of the way of Tom's killing curse, which swished through the air before fading into the fog. Harry pushed Richard aside, rolling out of the creature's path.

Harry's wand whipped round in an arc. " _Accio_!"

Splinters of wood from the broken doors zipped towards them out of the fog, directed by his wand in hail of tiny darts. The hound yelped and retreated as Arabella redirected her net of light, driving it away from them. It snarled, teeth bared before it vanished into the fog.

"Come on!" Arabella called. They ran after her, stumbling to the row of houses successfully this time. She ushered them inside; Harry paused on the threshold.

"Accio," he repeated. This time a tin can flew to his hand. "Get inside, secure the windows," he ordered, running his wand over the metal. It shifted, stretching and flowing into a long, steel sword with a razor sharp edge. A cloud of tiny splinters hovered beside him in his hand the blade shimmered with a ghostly light.

Arabella hesitated for a moment then she squeezed his shoulder and stepped inside, making her way down the dark hallway. Harry waited, the sword's hilt gripped tightly in his left hand. He hoped it would be enough. He had never been much of a swordsmith and the weapon in his hand might well turn out to be no more than a pretty prop. The beast was better suited to close combat than him. He did not trust himself to be able to keep it at bay though and the sword might prove his best hope.

There was a growl from his left and a small flurry of splinters shot off in the direction of the sound. Nothing. He followed up the feint with a second to the right, feeding out splinters in wide waves, narrowing down the beast's location. Still nothing. He withdrew to just within the doorway, narrowing the passageway it could approach along. He held the blade by his side. From inside the house he could hear muttered incantations.

The mist stilled, each tiny droplet of water frozen in the air. Harry drew the sword upwards in a clean arc, relying upon his instincts and reflexes as a grey shape lunged through the fog. It was moving too fast to twist away. The blade drove into its foreleg as it crashed into him, sending him sprawling. The blade snapped, leaving itself embedded in the hound. Harry's wand rolled way down the hall, knocked from his hand. He scrambled towards it, kicking at the hound. The creature whimpered as his foot slammed into its muzzle. With an effort it heaved itself up and began to limp towards him, golden eyes gleaming balefully.

It lunged towards him, teeth snapped inches from his foot. He closed his hand into a fist and the remaining, hovering splinters trembled, " _Oppugno_!" The splinters plunged down, burying themselves in the hound. It thrashed, trying to dislodge them and collapsed as its wounded leg buckled. Harry threw himself forwards, grabbed his wand, rolled onto his back and aimed in one smooth movement. The hound looked up and whined, its ears pricking up at a sound inaudible to Harry.

" _Gwaywffon drywanir_ ," he spat, a spear of purple light sliced the air and smashed into the hound's forehead. There was a puff of black dust as a small, circular patch of fur, skin and bone disintegrated. The hound's body shuddered, trying to breath for a moment and then it collapsed. Harry stood, shaking. His sides were bruised and the hound's claws had torn three long bloody scratches down his leg.

Kitty's head poked around the door of the front room. "Are you okay sir?"

"I'm fine," he said slowly, blinking at the dissolving mist.

Arabella's voice came from the room, "Get in here, _now_."

The five of them peered through the wide bay-window. The fog had almost entirely vanished with the hound's death and they could see the other side of the village. If anything the scene was worse than they had imagined. Corpses were strewn around like rag dolls. Some sprawled on the ground; others were nailed to the walls, and some swung in the trees. The street was not deserted though. Twelve goblins stood waiting in thick leather armour, armed with a glittering array of weapons.

The goblin at the centre of the group stepped forwards. His face was covered in a patchwork of scars and a slender scimitar was grasped in a long, bony hand. His voice was like boots crunching on gravel, "I call for parley. Do you accept?"

Tom shrugged. "I will do the talking," he whispered and opened the window, turning to the goblins. "Certainly."

The goblin leader ran a long, pale, white tongue over his lips as he spoke, "Send out the thief and we will leave the rest of you alive."

Tom blinked. "There are no thieves here."

The hounds led us here. They can smell the crime. Hand him over or die."

"I really have no idea to whom you refer," Tom replied, shushing Harry with a finger before he could speak.

The goblin turned his back on them to return to his party. He had barely taken a step when Tom's killing curse hit him between the shoulder blades. Tom looked at the others in the moment of silence which followed.

"What? He was boring me. Now _duck_!"

They dove to the floor. A moment later a hail of darts, bullets and crossbow bolts shattered the glass. Tom summoned a shard of glass from the floor and silvered one side with practised ease before levitating it into a position from which to see the goblins.

"They are reloading. Two with crossbows still ready, and one of the gunners has almost reloaded. Frau Fairchilde shield us … the rest of you, strike!" He leapt to his feet, wand slashing the air with the lightning bolt of the killing curse.

Richard followed suit, from the cover of an armchair, green light blazing from his wand tip. Kitty let loose a piercing curse a moment later, the thick orange beam streaking out into the street.

" _Stupefy_!" Harry yelled, a red pulse stabbing from his wand before dissipated on a goblin's armour. A crossbow bolt fired in return bounced off Harry's coat, though the impact knocked him stumbling.

" _Protego totalum_ ," Arabella's shield caught a single bullet, slowing it to a stop so that it dropped from the air. The shield buckled under the strain and barely slowed the next crossbow bolt. Tom dashed it out of the air with an extravagant slash of his wand before he ducked out of sight again.

Arabella's eyes widened, "That should have stopped anything bar unforgivables …"

Tom picked up the bullet whilst he watched the scene outside through his homemade mirror. "One dead, one wounded. The others have scattered to better positions. This bullet," he said, turning it over carefully, "is covered in runes. They've bespelled them. I doubt any shield will do much good."

A crossbow bolt hummed through the window, forcing them to keep low. Tom tilted his mirror, searching for the goblin who had shot. "Richard, two o'clock, crossbow; eleven o'clock marksman, behind the tree. Your choice."

As Richard took his shot Harry, imitated Tom and created his own mirror. Lying on the floor he levitated the shattered fragments of glass, directing the tiny slivers of glass towards another of the goblins. Tom glanced around, satisfied they were distracted he tapped Kitty with his wand whispering, " _Imperio_. No matter what, do not let Harry come to harm." She stiffened and nodded silently.

There was a lull in fire from both sides. Harry waited, tensed. His ribs ached and the wound on his thigh throbbed as he lay on the floor near to the door. It was only his proximity to the hall which alerted him to the soft tread of boots in the corridor. He heaved himself up into a kneeling position and pulled the coat over his hand, gripping it on the inside.

A goblin burst through the doorway, sword raised, Harry raised his arm to block. Sparks flashed as the enchanted blade skittered off the coat and Harry winced as the impact bruised his arm. " _Skera_!" The lime green light of the curse scored a thin line across the goblin's armour, but failed to penetrate.

Harry batted the goblin's sword downwards with his coat. The blade sliced into the wall as he used the momentum to push himself up and pin the sword. " _Ilafn grisial_!" A latticework of crystals formed around his wand into a long, slicing blade.

The goblin abandoned his sword, steel claws extending from his gauntlets. Harry blocked the first slash and jumped backward. The sudden weight on his injured leg was too much, he stumbled, crying out. In the corner of his eye he saw Kitty jumping from the floor. There was a scream of pain and she jolted in mid-leap, blood spurting from her shoulder as a crossbow bolt hit home. She staggered and crashed onto the goblin's side. The goblin careered into the wall; Harry lunged, the crystal blade coming within inches of the goblin's chest.

" _Reducto_ ," Harry shouted. The red bolt exploded outwards, dissolving the crystal, striking the half-stunned goblin. Its chest exploded in a fountain of blood and bone. Harry dropped to the floor, panting. He reached over to Kitty and checked the wound. She had fainted, but the bolt was preventing most of the bleeding. It had lodged in her shoulder, embedded in the bone.

Tom crawled over to him and dipped his fingers into the bloody hole in the goblin's chest, " _Aima vrei tous syngeneis sou kai na skotósei_." Tom sank onto the floor, breathing hard.

Blood soared upwards, out of the corpse, flying through the window in bright streams. The flow divided into two and then into four, each stream shooting away. Arabella watched the blood streak away. There was a pause and then screaming from outside.

"What did you do?" She asked pale, "That, that felt _wrong_."

"The blood will hunt down any of them within three familial removes of this one …" Tom wiped his hand on the goblin's clothes, "goblins are so _very_ inbred."

Harry crawled forwards, wand grasped firmly in his hand, "How many left do you think?"

"Five, six maybe," Richard replied. "Do you want to take it to them?"

Mist bled in through the window.

"We'd better. Any we can hit before this mist gets too thick?" Harry asked.

"One, sniper on the roof opposite."

"Dual _confringoes_?" Harry suggested.

"On three ..." Richard answered.

At the back of the room Tom crawled to Kitty's side. " _Obliviate_ ," he whispered as he broke the _imperius_.

The explosion of the roof opposite was confirmed as tiles rained down into the street and a short scream was cut off. The mist veiled any effect. There was a pause and then a small, silver cylinder spiralled through the window, black runes glinting on it.

Richard's eyes widened. " _Scutum, protegat, et loricae, et quod ex hoc igne deflectat_ ," he virtually screamed the words. Tendrils of light wrapped themselves around the cylinder. There was a flash and the bubble of light spun faster and faster, becoming a blur before fading to nothing. Richard shuddered and collapsed, unconscious.

"Tom, we need a plan, now!"

"I have no plan," Tom sighed. "Let's just go out there and give them hell. The mist will turn this shelter into a trap. We need to move."

They stood slowly, stiffly, Arabella joined them. They looked between one another advanced towards the window, wands at the ready. There was a scream from the mist. They paused. A second scream. A body crunched into the wall outside. There was a gurgling noise not far away and then silence.

"What ... what do you think is out there?" Arabella asked, shaken.

No-one answered her. A tall figure strode through the mist towards them, its head was crowned with curling spikes. Its hand carried the second of the hounds, which twitched slowly in its grasp. A voice shaped words in their minds, _Greetings once more. It would seem that I arrived in the nick of time._


	17. Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire

**Out of the Frying Pan and into the Fire**

_2006 – The End of the War_

The hall was empty, long and wide, the smooth, obsidian walls rose to a high, curving roof. Jade braziers were set into the walls each seven feet apart. Silver, whispering flames curled upwards from them, casting a chilly, unnatural light over the room. Emerald banners hung down the walls, covered in poisonous serpents. At the end of the hall stood a tall, high-backed, dark wood throne. On it reclined a figure more demon than man. Flesh as white as bleached bones, a face somewhere between that of a skull and a snake, red eyes glinted under hooded brows. He was drumming a pale wand against the arm of the chair as he waited. Cries and shouts dulled by the thick walls crept into the room as if they were embarrassed to present themselves to him.

The great, brass doors to the throne room shuddered under an unseen blow. Lord Voldemort straightened up, interest flickering over his features. He had long since blocked out any of the reports on the fortress' wards, fighting off the desire to spoil the surprise. He suspected he already knew the answer. There came a muffled shout from outside and the doors shuddered again, buckling under the strain. Blood seeped beneath them. They swung open slowly, gently. A man stepped through. He was about six foot, with messy, black hair; his clothes were plain dark combat robes, and he wore thin, wire rimmed glasses. The doors closed softly behind him.

"Hello Tom," he said, idly glancing around the room.

"Welcome Harry, welcome. I _do_ hope your friends are enjoying their reception," Voldemort said.

"I think they are giving as good as they get … they are very generous people," Harry answered, sauntering up the length of the hall, "I met Bellatrix on the way. She didn't seem very pleased to see me."

"I am sure she will get over it," Voldemort replied with a small shrug.

"I doubt it. I can't say I think much of the décor by the way," Harry commented. His boots scuffed across the polished floor. "Still at least you haven't had murals celebrating your victories put up."

"The decorators are booked for next week."

"Pity."

They were barely more than half a dozen yards apart now. Voldemort stood smoothly, his black robe flowing like water. " _So_ Harry what do you want?"

"You dead."

"Tut tut, politeness costs nothing. Anyway we both know that isn't the truth, not the relevant truth in any case. If you were here to kill me you would have already struck. Perhaps you should tell me before more of your friends die," Voldemort smiled, his face twisting into a ghastly parody of a smile.

Harry winced, avoiding Voldemort's gaze. "We can't kill each other Tom. I'm your last horcrux, you can't make any more. If I cut you down you'll simply spring up again. If you kill me you become mortal …"

"Do not imagine suicide would help you. I would live long enough to turn the world to ash," Voldemort warned, circling the younger man, prowling over the smooth floor like a panther.

"Which is why I'm here. I've come to offer you a bargain Tom: your immortality for the safety of the rest of the world," Harry answered wearily. He looked young Voldemort thought, not yet even thirty.

"Do your friends know?" Voldemort asked, tilting his head to the side. He blinked, filmy eyelids flickering across the red irises and slitted pupils

Harry shook his head, ignoring the grandeur of the hall, concentrating upon Voldemort alone. "I'll tell them afterwards. They'd only try to talk me out of it."

"Even your lover?" Voldemort asked curiously.

"Even her. I'll be back with her soon enough. Now will you make a deal?"

Voldemort considered the question for a moment, still pacing. "Yes."

* * *

_Present Day_

The mists writhed as the hound twisted in the Erlking's grasp. He turned his eyes to study it and then made a single, sharp movement. There was a snap and the whimpering stopped, the muzzle slumped. He ran a hand down its face, closing the faintly glowing eyes. His dark, shifting, green eyes flickered back to Arabella, Tom and Harry, and beyond them to the unconscious forms of Kitty and Richard.

_A pity …_ the words slowly sunk into their minds, _t_ _hat it should come to that._

"Thank you …" Harry said awkwardly, trying not to stare at the great, grey carcass still gripped in the Erlking's fist.

_Believe that at any other time a hundred of your teeming kind would have died before I had allowed this creature to be lost to the world._

"Erm, right ..." Harry started only to be cut off again. As the Erlking gently laid the corpse onto the ground. Tiny roots and shoots sprung from between the stones of the pavement and wrapped themselves around the hound's body, shielding it from sight.

_There are few enough of the Hounds of Morning left in this grey world without the loss of two such beasts today. Their kin will mourn._

"Yes, yes, we get the picture," Tom snapped from somewhere behind Harry. "If you're so enamoured of these beasts then I imagine you have a reason for helping … possibly one you are actually going to get around to soon?"

The Erlking's attention flicked to him and it took a step forward. Harry heard Tom give a small, stifled noise, halfway between a hiss and a gasp. Shreds of mist twisted around the Erlking as he moved, slowly dissipating.

_The assistance of your kind is required. Assistance which you can provide._

"What kind of assistance. Why us?" Arabella asked suspiciously from Harry's right-hand side. Her wand was still gripped tightly in her hand and he could almost sense the magic in the air rippling around her, tinged with fear. To his left Tom slunk back a step.

The liquid-green eyes narrowed. Beyond the village leaves rustled in a savage breeze. _There is an infestation to the south. The land is befouled by the taint of daemons._

"Oh, I am so sorry. Perhaps I can send it a get well soon card once we get back to civilisation?" Tom muttered, his lips twisting in an unpleasant grimace. "I fail to see why we are required. You have power … and cunning, I pity the daemon who pits its wits against you."

Harry cast a glance back towards Kitty, he could see the glint of light on a shallow pool of dark liquid which was seeping out from under her shoulder. They needed to move on, yet the news of a daemon infestation might go some way to explaining the disappearances in the south.

_Their power is an anathema to mine; I cannot act against them, at least not directly, nor will they strike against me, for now. So we at an impasse, but you will be my_ _weapon_ , the Erlking continued. Leaves rustled over his body and tiny spikes of Hawthorn sprung from his wooden flesh as he spoke.

"Why us?" Arabella asked simply, still wary.

Behind them Kitty groaned. Harry turned around, picking his way through the room to the young auror's side. The carpet beneath her shoulder was stained a deep red and the stain was slowly spreading. He swore, searching for a cloth with which to bind up her arm, reluctant to conjure one in case it would interact the crossbow bolt's enchantments.

_You are resourceful …_

"And possibly insane enough to do it," Tom interjected bitterly. "He has been skimming our minds … and he has had quite an unusual level of access to Harry and indeed to me. Not to mention that if we die doing this he gets his revenge. Ultimately though," he licked his lips almost triumphantly, "he does not have another option. Who else is there to ask? The question is what is in it for us?"

_They are slaughtering your kind_ , the Erlking pointed out, his voice resonating in their minds.

"And?" Tom asked blandly. Arabella shot him a look of disgust.

_If that means nothing to you then simply name your price_ , the Erlking spread his arms wide as if to offer them the world, the air hummed with sounds just on the edge of hearing. _Name your wish and if it can be done it will be done. Precious stones; power over the trees and plants; a palace made from living trees; the opening of the third eye so that you may see the world as it truly is; a body which will not fail with old age … any of these could be yours._

"Your gifts, the useful ones, that is to say the ones which grant power … would I be correct in assuming that they would connect us to you?" Tom asked warily.

The Erlking bowed his head in acknowledgement. _That is the case, though it would do you no harm …_

"I'll do it," said Harry from the back of the room, tying a tourniquet around Kitty's shoulder, as high up as possible, "but no gift, thank you. I'd prefer to keep you as far away from me as possible."

Tom glared at Harry, "Fine. You can count me out of any _gifts_. I will not be your pawn again."

The Erlking gave what might have been a shrug, massive shoulders flowing under his cloak of leaves. _Do as you wish. I leave you this gift in any case, call upon me of you have need of aid. What of you though, young one_ , he turned to Arabella, his long, taloned fingers reaching towards her. She started backwards, swallowing nervously.

She hesitated, curiosity warring with trepidation on her face, "I … I will think about it. May I have time?"

The Erlking nodded graciously, his body bending as he did so, a tree in the wind. Harry levitated Kitty forwards, pausing by Richard to pick up the elder auror's wand from where it had fallen. Casting a sticking charm he bound the two aurors together and levitated them as one, guiding their movements with his wand.

"We need to get a move on, Kitty is still losing blood. Without potions I don't know how long she's got. Richard's out cold from that last spell of his, I doubt he's in any danger, but … Look, could you just tell us what we need to know as we walk? We need to get back to Stuttgart as soon as possible," Harry said, moving forwards through the shattered front of the house.

_Certainly._

The short and the long of it was that there were a sect of daemon-summoners in the southern parts of the Black Forest. What their purpose was the Erlking was unsure, either he had no way to gather information upon the subject or he was unwilling to divulge it. The only help that he could give came fluttering from the sky, a large, black rook with bright, black eyes, which landed upon Harry's shoulder and gave a horse croak. The Erlking reached forward, running his gnarled fingers over its feathers and finally tapping its beak where a spark of green energy leapt from his finger to sink into its forehead.

_I give to you the power of mortal speech_ , he murmured as the spark faded from view, before turning to the humans, _She will lead you to them. She has a sense for magic and can scent it on the winds. If you need help simply send word with her. She will find me and I will do what I can._

"Does she have a name?" Arabella asked, looking at the bird curiously.

"'Course I do," the bird cawed, turning its head to look at her in a swift flutter of motion. The language it spoke was neither German nor English, nor indeed any language Harry knew, but it seemed to shift as it was heard, making sense retroactively.

Arabella blinked but made no comment. "And what is it?"

"Ooo," the rook hopped from one foot to the other, "that's my business that is, not going to tell you that."

Harry sighed, "Just call it Cor, that's a good name for a crow."

"I'm a rook, thank you _very_ much," the bird protested.

"Cor it is," said Harry, ignoring the protest and turning back to the Erlking "Is there anything more you can do to help us?"

_No. My ways are not your ways. I do not know how to help you even if I could. These are foes for mortals, not foes for me._

"Do you know their numbers?" Tom asked, breaking the silence he had kept since they had passed the corpses in the tree on their way out of the village.

_Many. Now though I will take my leave of you. Remember though, the summoners are the mind which moves the daemons' power, though both are dangerous in their own right. As more mortal blood is spilt the daemon's numbers grow. Young one_ , he said, turning to Arabella, _sometimes even the most terrible of debts can be wiped clean by the right action._

Then in a dancing spiral of leaves he was gone. They were standing at the edge of a long, wide meadow surrounded by pine trees. The grass was a pale, greenish blue, and a black, peat stained stream snaked across the field. Here and there were dotted clumps of silver birches and elders, their branches overhanging the water.

The air halfway across the meadow shimmered with a heat haze despite the chill which hung in the air. Harry swapped his holly wand from one hand to the other, flexing his fingers as he began to tramp through the grass, picking his way around the tussocks.

"Bird," Tom ordered, "find where we can apparate safely."

"You can't just order me round mister," Cor croaked, but her beady black eyes took in the twitch Tom's wand-hand made and with a loud, irritated caw she took off, flying into the hazy air.

As it fluttered away Tom lengthened his stride till he was beside Harry. "We should kill it and the aurors," he urged, "they _cannot_ be trusted."

"You're sounding like a broken record Tom. I _know_ they can't, but we can't just kill them!" Harry hissed in frustration, "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. We'll come up with something, just be patient."

"The people who say that are the ones who are trying to get close enough to stab you in the back," Tom scoffed. "At least it explains your suicidal tendency to try to make allies out of enemies."

"What are you to talking about?" Arabella asked, clambering over a mound to catch up to them.

Tom half turned to her as he paused at the edge of the stream pushing the long grass aside as he went and flashed her a smile, "Simply considering our next move. You should probably take these two to the nearest healers," he waved a hand vaguely at the still unconscious aurors. "The locals will respond better to one of their own. We can go to the palace to prepare for the next step … and to ensure you are let in when you arrive." With a graceful bound he leapt from one bank of the stream to the other, landing smoothly on the other side.

Harry followed him across, opting to clamber down the bank to the water's edge and hop over to the shingle on the other side. The pebbles crunched under his feet and he straightened up before mounting the bank, brushing off a couple of pieces of grass and reed from the sleeve of his coat. His limbs ached slightly from the morning's exertions and his posture sagged slightly as he waited for Arabella to cross the stream.

"Funny really," she began as she hopped across, "I never liked crossing brooks like this, they always made me think of Oma's stories of kelpies surging up to claim travellers," she said ignoring Harry's proffered hand as she clambered up the small, middy cliff.

"I wouldn't worry, they're almost extinct, except in Scotland of course," said Harry. "One of the few creatures the Black Forest lacks actually."

"Precisely, not much of a worry. Kelpies seem a little tame in comparisons with daemon," Arabella finished. She looked down at Kitty's floating body, the girl's face was tinged with an unhealthy pallor. "Haven't you tried any healing spells? She needs help!" Blood was still slowly creeping through the auror's robe.

"I daren't try, I've fought enough goblins to know their weapons are laced with runes. It could just make things worse," Harry said as they set off on the last stretch. Tom was ahead of them, almost at the boundary, the rook swooping overhead.

"Were you going to mention that before I whisked them off to the healers?" Arabella asked archly.

"Ah … well … I'm certain I would have mentioned it in time," Harry said, rubbing the hair behind his ear in embarrassment.

As they came to the haze Cor landed on Arabella's shoulder again.

"It's fine. Fine. This _is_ the border. Erm … hold on to one another," the rook warned

"Right, everyone, hold hands," Harry ordered and grasping Arabella's hand in his and Richard's in his other he plunged into the haze. Magic flared, spreading through him and outwards. It was like trying to walk along the bottom of a pool of water. His movements were sluggish and difficult. He could feel the long strands of Arabella's hair brush over his face in soft tendrils, but through his blurred vision he could not see them. The others were merely blurs on either side.

Tom had grasped Kitty's arm, and magic sparked over his skin in tiny emerald bursts of light. It clustered at his fingertips, crawling over Richard and Kitty's bodies. Half way between Tom and Harry though the green sparks turned back, flowing back to their source. On Harry's right he could feel the sparks flickering from his skin bursting like soap bubbles as they met Arabella's own, sky blue magic. Cor's claws dug into the cloth of Arabella's jumper, making her wince as they cut into her shoulder.

Then they were through. The air was beautifully clear and he could hear larks in the distance. He could feel his legs trembling and he gasped for breath. He stumbled onwards until they were a dozen yards beyond. He stopped, breathing deeply, his eyes closed as he enjoyed the sensation.

"Arabella, grab Kitty. I'll need you to help direct them as we apparate. Tom, we'll meet at the apparition point at the end of the Gerüchtgasse," Harry said as he clasped his hand around Richard's forearm, not letting go of Arabella's hand.

"Come now Harry, let me help," Tom said, his face suggesting nothing but sincerity and concern.

"I don't want to find that they've lost a head or something vital on the way Tom. You can just meet me there," Harry insisted and then with a crack he, Cor, Arabella and the aurors were gone.

Tom looked about him for a moment. The leaves on the trees at the edge of the wood fluttered in the breeze and the grasses swayed. The dark, rich smell of the muddy stream tinged the air.

"I am certain you can hear me, Erlking, do not bother to show yourself. All I have to say is this: if the boy comes to harm I will turn every last one of your trees to ash … and, if your plans come to threaten my person directly, you will wish I had."

The leaves danced on the trees. There was a sound which might have been laughter, or it might have been the calling of the birds on the winds.

* * *

They appeared with a crack on the silver plated apparition platform which lay towards the end of the Gerüchtgasse. Once the people of Stuttgart had come there in search of those most skilled at determining the truth, not to mention finding lost pets, mislaid items and occasionally runaway spouses. Now, however, most such searches were handled by the city guard and so the area had been slowly taken over by a number of cafés, whose owners had clubbed together to ensure the city's rulers were content enough with the state of affairs that they would leave the street in its position, near the gate.

Harry quickly checked himself and Richard for any sign of splinching, but they seemed unharmed as were Arabella and Kitty. Tom was not in sight.

A thin official in dusty yellow robes hurried over to them leaving a collection of tourists who were being escorted by a goblin guide, "Hurry along, hurry along. Step off the platform would you? It'll be five sestertii each for the apparition."

Harry pursed his lips but handed over the money, stepping to one side to hide his presence from the goblin. "Where's the nearest healer?" He asked stepping off the platform.

"Just down that street there, first left, then right, then left again. The route's fixed so no need to worry about getting lost. If it looks as if there's a wall in the way just carry on through. It'll be signed up," the official assured him scooting off to deal with a new arrival.

"Look, you take these two along there, I'll wait for Tom. We'll meet you at the palace gates at seven, is that alright?" Harry asked, looking down at Arabella.

"Fine. Just don't expect me to run your errands all the time," she replied, though without real rancour in her tone. Brandishing her own wand she began to direct the unconscious aurors down the street, earning curious glances from passers-by as she went.

Harry turned to look back at the apparition point, tapping his foot on the flagstones. The street was pleasant, pastel coloured awnings overhung wrought-iron tables and chairs. The buildings each stood a solid three stories in height, though here and there turrets and minarets poked about the surrounding buildings, at odds with the lively terracotta roofs and simple façades.

Here and there children were chasing after charmed toys; paper dragons, griffins and hippogriffs which fluttered through the air. Parents, and older siblings lounged in the chairs sipping at drinks. Up above the stars glinted in a velvety sky where the shrinking sliver of the pale moon hung. The street lamps were already shining, soft light shining through iridescent glass spheres which hung in the air. There was a whiff of cinnamon and mint on the breeze and a sense of impending carnival.

There was still no sign of Tom. It was always possible that the man had been shunted off course during apparition as others arrived in the city, but Harry could not suppress a small flicker of concern. He felt a certain responsibility. His hand slipped into his pocket, looking for something to worry at, and closed around Richard's wand. He paused, considering it.

"And that," remarked a voice stiffly behind him, "is why the public should be confined except when absolutely necessary."

" _You're_ a member of the public nowadays Tom," Harry pointed out wearily, looking up at the dark haired man and shuffling his thoughts to the side. "Do you feel like a cup of tea? We've got some time."

"Here? I doubt they have any good teas … but the idea is not without merit," Tom sniffed.

"Perhaps somewhere a little bit less public though," Harry conceded, passing over Tom's remark.

"Very well."

They began to stroll down the street, picking a side alley. Tom paused at the corner, examining the wall. He brushed his fingers over it, the faintest coating of brown dust remaining on his fingers, "Interesting …"

The buildings in the alley were of a rich golden rock, smoothly hewn and gently glowing. They sauntered up it, wending their way deeper into the city. The alley broadened it a street with a wild medley of shops and businesses: a grocer's selling liquid; tiny, silvery nuts, and delicate little tubers marked with warnings about electrical shocks; a music shop was crammed in between the grocer's and a newsagent's, a long tower made of old red bricks, at odds with its surroundings, winding upwards, musical notes floating over the rough brickwork.

On the opposite side of the street a solicitor's office towered over its neighbours, the walls bulging, almost forcing the others outwards. In front stood a large, ornate portico painted in purple and gold. A poster in the window flashed with an advertisement for the solicitor's services when defending your newly inherited property from the claims of ghosts or _inferi_. To its left a tiny dark green shop advertised muggle medicines. Two doors up stood a café, a simple lilac awning dipping outwards.

Harry and Tom entered, and sat themselves beside a wall, far enough into the shop to be almost invisible from outside. Harry took off his coat hanging it on the back of the chair. Tom finally sheathed his wand and sat back, plucking a menu from the table-top.

"You should have let me dispose of them," Tom said casually as he scanned the list of drinks, the words shifting to English as he ran his eye over them. "Oh that is ingenious, low level psychic paper perhaps? A voice sensitive menu?" He smiled thinly amused by the concept.

"Kill them you mean," Harry said, not looking up from his own menu.

"You really needn't be so crude. That would not have been necessary, an _obliviation_ charm would have done. If you were not so fussy I could have used an _imperius_ or two. No harm done and I … we would have had a couple of servants," Tom put down the menu with a certain finality. He leant it against the delicate crystal flower which blossomed in the centre of the table. He sat forward leaning his elbows on the table.

"Better the devil you know," Harry remarked, putting down his own menu and leaning back, the legs of his chair lifting from the floor. The door opened with a jangle and a dark skinned man in robes somewhere between burnt-umber and a dark, dark red in colour came in.

"You live that maxim to the full don't you?" Tom asked, somewhere between amused and frustrated. "Anyway, I would have imagined that I would fulfil that requirement to a tee."

"Indeed, but life seems to be of a different opinion," Harry said.

Tom pulled a face which might have been agreement and turned to a look for a waiter. A young man, of about sixteen or seventeen spots still fresh on his face, hurried over. As he took their order Harry glanced around him, taking in the café for the first time. It was a single moderately sized room, empty save for the man who had seated himself at a far table. He caught sight of Harry's eye and gave him a wide amused smile, raising two fingers to his forehead in greeting before turning to study his own menu. The walls of the room were lined with book shelves of pale, lightly stained wood. Muggle paper backs intermingled on them with calf-skin bound volumes.

Harry's eyes drifted to the scene outside the window. There was a title in bold outside the newsagent's, just too far away from Harry to see properly. He narrowed his eyes trying to make out the letters …

Tom coughed lightly. "One might think that you haven't been listening," said Tom a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. "Do you enjoy this lifestyle?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, turning to thank the waiter for the steaming pot of darjeeling tea, who carefully placed it on the table-top.

"I am surprised you can even get that here," Tom remarked. He looked out of the window, his jaw tight as he scanned the people who were passing by the window. "Look at them, each trundling along in their own little lives. Do you think they even realise that the sands of time are running? That every second another tiny sliver of their time as living, thinking beings is running out?"

"Probably," Harry answered carefully pouring his tea.

"Then why aren't they fighting it? Panicking? Why aren't they doing anything about it?" Tom hissed through his teeth, his fingers curling into a tight fist, the knuckles turning white.

"Why would they? They think it is inevitable. How many people have heard of horcruxes, or know that the philosopher's stone is a real possibility? In any case they know other people will be fighting the battle for them," Harry pointed out mildly. The thin noise of a radio crackled on in the back of the café, the sounds of string instruments stirring into life.

"That's the difference between them and us," Tom sneered, "we fight our own battles."

"True," Harry agreed, "it doesn't mean we're better. Maybe we're just more ego-centric."

"I _fought_ for immortality. I did everything I could to get it, and I _won_ ," Tom pointed out.

"You didn't make a philosopher's stone," Harry retorted, "seems a nice safety net really."

The music on the radio ended, the presenter coughed before speaking, "And now the Franz Schubert's Erlkönig performed on the piano by Alfredo Matzini …"

"Do you know the price you pay for making such a thing?" Tom asked. "You must sacrifice the gift of magic, the one thing which sets us above all other beings. Nicholas Flamel became little more than a squib. He poured everything he had into that stone. Didn't you ever wonder why hardly any wizards knew his name? More muggles than wizards knew he existed!"

"Ah," Harry said simply. The conversation fell into a lull. He sipped his tea, looking out at the street.

"You know," Tom observed, "we need a plan for the eventuality that we are captured in the future … I will not be forced to submit to the will of another again."

"You have a suggestion you want to make?" Harry asked. The waiter moved quietly through the tables behind him turning up the lights on the walls. Rich orange-gold light filled the room and the bookshelves threw shadows over the floor.

"I should enchant our wands," Tom said, leaning forward, moving his hot chocolate carefully to the side. "If you give me yours for a moment I will place a triggered summoning spell upon it first, and then upon mine."

For a moment Harry did not reply and then with a bark of laughter his face cracked into a smile, "You have to be joking, let you, of all people put spells upon _my_ wand. You're living in a fantasy Tom."

"Are you really unwilling to trust me? Even now?" Tom asked, a pained expression flickering over his features.

Harry ignored it, "Yes. You have a point though, we should do something of the sort …" his eyes glazed over considering the idea.

Tom scanned the room as his companions thoughts danced off on their own path. There were occasions when he could not be bothered to follow the boy's thought processes. The floorboards were scuffed, the book spines worn and there were small chips in the wood of the chairs, nevertheless the room gleamed with the immaculately cleanliness possessed only by those places whose inhabitants have too much spare time and too little to do with it. Passers-by largely ignored it. A man wandered past outside, his grey hair poking over his newspaper. Tom's eyes caught the headline and he started. He did not feel comfortable in the shabby little café, the goblins were irritatingly persistent and he could not shake the fear that Harry might still be in danger. The sooner the boy was safely in the palace the better.

"This is the last thing we're going to do. No more quests, no more struggling to save this bleak world from itself. When this is done we'll disappear. I have let you choose your path, but the helm of this ship is mine," Tom warned.

Harry tapped his spoon against the table, avoiding Tom's gaze. "We'll see."

"No, we won't. Leave Malfoy to his power games, and the Princess to whatever schemes she's hatching. That is their business not ours," Tom insisted. The radio ended another song and the voice of the presenter broke in with the weather report.

"What if they make it our business though?" Harry asked quietly as the sound of the radio filled the café.

"They can't. We are out of Malfoy's grip here and once our work here is done there are a thousand, thousand places we could go," Tom said firmly.

Mountainous purple clouds slowly drifted over the peak of the rooftops opposite. Harry looked at Tom carefully evidently trying to read his face. Tom smiled genially only for his smile to falter when Harry began to speak, "Is that really what you want? To hide? For your name to vanish from the history books just as mine has?"

"No," Tom admitted grudgingly.

"Then redeem yourself in the eyes of the world. Help stop the war we both know Malfoy wants," Harry urged.

Tom blinked, "What? Why on earth would I _redeem_ myself? Where did that idea even come from?"

"He took the crown Tom. War has been his preoccupation for the last century. The establishment of a new golden age for Britain," Harry gave a sour chuckle, "don't you want a bit of revenge?"

"Maybe. He's looking for his own sort of immortality. A legacy to last forever. I will admit that it is tempting to destroy his dreams," Tom admitted.

"There's still the question of why he decided to send us," Harry added after a moment's thought.

"To get me out of the way of course," Tom responded simply. He glanced over at the dark skinned man who was still sitting in the corner, his eyes fixed on the two of them. "You know I think we should leave soon."

"You're straying into ego-centric territory again Tom," Harry warned gently.

"Accuses the man who is ignoring the fact that by his reasoning Thorbecombe might be the one Malfoy is seeking to remove from England, or maybe it's that young chit of a girl, whatever her name is. You hid away in your village ignoring the world, and as the one-time ruler of Britain I am obviously the greater threat. You were only brought along in order to persuade me to comply."

The waiter arrived with their bill and Tom slid a handful of coins onto the table sparks of tension spiking. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He stood up, slowly stretching as he slid his chair under the table. Harry followed suit, his eyes flicked from side to side as he noted the exaggerated relaxation in Tom's movements.

"You didn't have enough allies left to be a threat. If you had he wouldn't have dared to move against you. There must be another reason," Harry observed calmly as he held open the door for Tom. They stepped out into the street. The last afternoon wanderers had gone and in their place figures dressed in masks and strange costumes were weaving down towards the centre of the town. Men and women dressed in shimmering costumes of cats, birds, foxes and other animals and people crowded around them.

A figure dressed as a woman drifted past in layers of floating red cloth. Its face was covered by a blank, white mask, marred only by ruby red lips and trailing spirals of gold around the black eye sockets. Two others flanked it, dressed in burgundy coats and wide brimmed hats from which a feathers waved at jaunty angles and white, smiling masks. Around them the bells of the city were beginning to toll the hour.

They passed the newsagent's where the proprietor was tucking away the signs for the day, the headlines: TENSIONS BETWEEN FRANCE AND BRITAIN, were still visible in the window. Tom glanced at the reflection in the glass as they passed, the man from the café was following them.

He moved closer to Harry whispering into his ear, "We're being followed. Follow my lead." He ducked into a side street, drawing his wand. He could feel Harry close behind him. He turned again, darting into a narrow alley and stopped, waiting. Harry stood patiently beside him. The alley was damp, green lichen and moss crawling up the sides of the walls on either side. The stone had been dyed black by ages of grime and muck thrown up at one time or another. A handful of doorways lined the way to small apartments high above. From behind them there came the sound of wood clacking on stone. For a moment the walls began to fade from view, before with a groan they re-solidified.

"What in the name of Merlin just happened?" Harry whispered.

"The answer to that … is me," said an oddly accented voice filled with amusement. The dark skinned man from the café stepped around the corner. He was of slightly less than average height and in his hand he carried not a wand but a long staff with a ram's horn at the end. "The same wards which stilled the city told me of your arrival earlier." He flicked his hand upwards tossing three small rings of bone into the air, catching them on the back of his hand. He looked up at them, smiling, "It is _you_ , I _am_ glad. I admit I expected you to look older, but no matter, eh?"

Tom raised his wand to strike, but Harry pushed his hand aside, "Who are you? You don't work for the goblins. What are you even doing following us?"

"Mustaphar," the man replied devilry dancing in his eyes, "a pleasure to meet you. I have heard _so_ much about you ..."

Harry shook his head trying to understand, "Look … just what do you want? Where have you come from?"

Mustaphar's lips quirked upwards, spreading his arms wide, "From the other side of the world. I am here to prove a point."

A long, black shafted arrow shattered against the wall barely an inch from Tom's ear, slivers of wood exploding outwards from the impact. The three men's eyes flicked upwards as one. Above them a goblin pulled back out of sight from the edge of a roof top. Mustaphar's amusement died. He raised his staff and slammed it onto the cobbles, they rippled like water. The stones of the walls buckled and reformed with a shiver, throwing the goblin off his feet, sending him plummeting from the rooftop. Harry turned on his heel and ran, tugging Tom after him as the stone wave swept down the alley, stones crashing against one another. They leapt into another twisting alley, letting the wave sweep by.

Behind them came the noise of the staff clacking along the stones.


	18. The Streets of Stuttgart

  **On Stuttgart's Streets**

Their feet slammed down on the stones. They ran, slipping and sliding at times as they rounded corners, panting for breath. Harry clutched Tom's arm, relentlessly pulling him onwards. Sometimes they glimpsed violet sky above and heard the skittering of goblin feet above, then they would hurtle into the darkness of a tunnel again. Behind them came the thump of a staff on the cobbles.

Finally Tom pulled himself out of Harry's grip, coming to a halt, "I will not run. They must learn to fear us!"

"I wonder …" Mustaphar spoke from behind them, a deep throaty chuckle rumbling in the darkness. "I heard you were the greatest warrior of an age. So far I have only found an average sprinter."

Tom snarled. He sliced his wand through the air unleashing a stream of brilliant, blue light. It burnt into the brick work, scoring deep wounds into the aged bricks, but there was no-one there. Harry's lit his wand, illuminating the alley. Mustaphar stepped into the light, and thrust his staff forwards like a spear with a wordless shout. Harry twisted to the side, something whizzed past him searing the air. Tom stood firm, holding his wand before him, and the blast dissipated around him only serving to ruffle his hair.

Tom spoke slowly, "You want a warrior? So be it. _Caeli ardeat._ " The air at the tip of his wand boiled and tiny pale curls of steam spread outwards in a twisting web. Mustaphar hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face for the first time.

Mustaphar made a motion with his hand and the grime and dust of years leapt from the ground turning into a long, grey rod. He made a gesture and the rod moved only to burst into flames where the steam touched it. He clapped slowly, but to no avail. The steam crept closer, it spread out encircling Mustaphar. He closed his eyes and whistled, a sharp, dancing tune, a breeze rose around him tugging at the steam. He took a breath and whistled again, the tune leaping in the air. The steam's movement halted.

Tom bared his teeth in a snarl, raised his wand and brought it down. The steam split apart. Mustaphar raised his staff, blocking the invisible block, though he was forced to one knee. Harry shot a swift reducto under Tom's upraised arm. The staff whirled and the spell smashed into the brickwork. Mustaphar raised his staff above his head. There was a flash and the ceiling cracked, bricks raining into the passageway.

"Come on, we need to get out of here," Harry said, pulling them away from the collapsing passage. Once they were a safe distance away Tom leaned against a wall, coughing as the dust settled. In an upstairs window a light sparked and a face peered out into the night for a moment.

"I had him! If you had just waited for a moment …" Tom complained, dusting down his robe.

"The goblins would have trapped us in the tunnel ..." Harry murmured, scanning the rooftops.

From above there was a slow thumping like a great pair of bellows. Harry squinted up, for an instant a dark shaped blocked out the light of the stars. The smell of sulphur and rotten meat rolled over them.

"What was that?" Harry asked quietly. "It's too small to be a dragon …"

"It might be a wyvern," Tom suggested, "but surely no-one would bring one here."

Harry sighed and set off again. "Which way do you think we ought to go?" He asked as they reached a crossroads. He looked round the corner of grey stone and then took a hurried step backwards. "Not that way."

Tom looked at him wearily. "What now?"

"You know you said no-one would bring a wyvern into the city?"

"Yes."

"It's not our lucky day."

A long, thin, scaly snout snaked out from around the corner followed by a deep set red eye. Bright green and yellow smooth scales slithered over the stones with a sound like silk.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Find a way out. _Now_!" He ordered as he spun his wand in a circle. Water ran together from the gutters puddles, gathering.

The wyvern drew its head back. A fine vapour sprayed from glands below the black tongue and a spark flashed from its nostrils. Tom whipped his wand forwards almost simultaneously. Water cascaded downwards drowning the fire. The huge reptile reared as its rider, dressed in goblin silver, pulled on its reigns. Tom kept his wand spinning, muscles twitching in his face as the water flowed around him, shielding them.

Harry aimed his wand at the nearest doorway, " _Bombarda_!"

The lock shattered as the spell struck and the door flew upon. Harry's shoulders sagged as he heard a clack-clack and Mustaphar, covered in dust, strode from the passageway. "Marvellous, marvellous. To think I feared a disappointment ...' Mustaphar stopped short as he caught sight of the wyvern. With a wink he faded into the shadows.

Harry pushed into the house, brandishing his wand before him. Tom followed him, backing into the doorway. "Colloportus," he muttered, green light flashing over the frame sealing it shut. He turned to survey his surroundings. The hallway was dingy, only the faint light from Harry's wand lit the room. The walls were a dull grey, strips of faded yellow wallpaper hung limply from the walls. A long, thin staircase ran up the side of the hall opposite a door into presumably the rest of the house.

Harry looked from side to side, "Up then."

Something scrabbled at the door. Heavy claws raked the wood. Tom pushed forwards, "Hurry! No time to dawdle."

They scrambled up the stairs. Outside the claws paused and then a heavy blow shook the house, cracking the door and surrounding wall. A long talon ripped through the outside wall at the head of the first flight as they climbed upwards.

"This way," Tom ordered, turning back to the internal wall. "Stand back. _Reducto_!" A flash of red light flew from his wand and the wall exploded into dust and rubble

A startled man looked up from his bath tub. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" He asked as first Tom and then Harry walked through the hole in his wall.

"Building inspectors," Harry explained, patting the man's shoulder as he passed. "Don't mind us. I'm afraid you seem to be suffering from terrible dry rot," he added, nodding at the hole they had torn in the wall.

They chose a door on their left and took the steps down two at a time. The stairs were narrow, grey stone slabs curving round in a spiral. Harry looked out at a passing window, surprised at its presence. He paused.

"We have a problem," Harry observed. Tom stopped, looking at Harry expectantly. Footsteps echoed on the stairs above. "You know we've been going down?"

"Yes," Tom said impatiently.

"Well I think we may actually have been going up," Harry smiled weakly, "wizarding architecture, eh? Always an adventure."

Tom rubbed his forehead, "Fine. Time for plan A." He levelled his wand at the wall and it dissolved before him. The stones melted away to reveal the red tiled rooftops of Stuttgart. Far above mountainous clouds massed over the city. He turned back to Harry with a grin, "Time to make a stand."

There were two goblins already on the rooftops on either side, watching the streets below. Tom's killing curse struck one at the same time as Harry's piercing curse ripped a hole in the other's throat. It clawed at its neck for a moment and then toppled over the roof edge. A second later it landed in the alley below with a clattering crash.

They marched out together onto the rooftop. It was a narrow, flat plain between two steeply sloping roofs. Capping tiles decorated with twisting dragons adorned each side. The goblins came at them from all sides, silver armour glittering in the starlight. A whip of fire sprung from the top of Tom's wand twisting and curling savagely. Harry's wand moved in a blur ripping tiles from the roof top, hurling them into the paths of arrows and crossbow bolts. Tom and he stood back to back, revolving around one another.

"Why no guns, do you think?" Harry asked as he added another tile to his revolving shield.

"Too much noise," Tom suggested. "The guard would notice." He slashed his wand to the side, catching the neck of an advancing goblin. The creature dropped its sword to clutch at the burn. Tom's whip wrapped around it dragging it close before he snatched a dagger from the creature's belt and plunged it into the creature's eye. He pulled the blade free letting the goblin slide from the rooftop.

He flicked his wand out, yanking a goblin off a nearby roof, letting it plunge to the street below. There was a pause in the assault, the goblins who were left ducked behind chimney stacks and the edges of the roof. The long, deadly snout of the wyvern rose above the edge of the parapet.

Tom snarled in frustration, " _Avada kedavra_!"

The serpentine neck twisted out of the way, before the wyvern opened its mouth to return fire. Harry and Tom threw themselves to the ground raising shields as a blistering blast of fire cracked the tiles where they had been standing moments before.

"Son of a bitch," Harry groaned. He drew his wand through the aid in a sharp diagonal and a purple blast of light disintegrated a nearby chimney stack. He twisted his wand to the right before pulling it backwards. The dust filled the air above them, keeping its distance from them. The wyvern screamed in rage, its claws ripping at the roof as it shoot its head, trying to dislodge the fine grit. A goblin arrow fired into the dust haze bounced off its neck and an answering jet of fire incinerated the archer.

From the tower Mustaphar looked out at the battle. There was a nagging sense of disappointment, to take on an already beleaguered opponent was less fulfilling. Om the other hand it was unlikely that he would get such an opportunity again. Still, there was no reason not to even the field a little.

He pulled a small pouch from his robes. He shook a handful of hairs from it, each willingly given by the villagers. He blew on them gently, letting his breath lift them gently from his palm. They floated down to the dusty tower floor. The hairs twisted, bubbling. They grew, stubby, pale limbs sprang from them. With a cracking arched spines springing into existence. Small, squashed faces with wide, black eyes swelled from the ends of the hairs. Their flesh was pallid, the bones stood out beneath the leathery skin. Spiked tails, layered in bony spines curled around their legs. They looked up at him with wide, hungry eyes and sharp, gleaming teeth. Beyond the window a red mist filled the air.

"Kill them. Kill them all."

They surged outwards, ten, twenty, thirty of them; small, ravenous creatures with one thought in mind.

* * *

Ivaldi swung down off the wyvern's back. He fastened the black riding goggles around his head and drew his scimitar. Pulling a small, round buckler from the wyvern's flank he advanced into the haze. The thief would die. He muttered under his breath as he walked forwards,

"Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed,

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay dearly in their turn …

Farewell, Harry Potter." He touched a gauntleted hand to his goggles, the thick glass revealing the humans' body heat.

There was a scrambling of tiny feet and he spun around. A mass of creatures were closing in on him, spilling out from the tower, he rolled his shoulders and readied himself for battle.

The wyvern roared. Bursts of flame piercing the dusty veil as the tiny creatures swarmed over it. It thrashed, cracking one of the roof beams as it rolled over the tiles. It lifted off from the roof with a beat of its wings. Ivaldi swung his blade, slicing an incoming creature in two, its misshapen head, eyes bulging flew past his ear. He knocked another aside with his buckler. A tongue of wizard's fire, blue and cold snaked out of the mist, following the sound. Ivaldi raised his shield, weathering the blast.

The wyvern screamed again tossing a couple of the monsters off its back, smashing them against the roof. Ivaldi changed his path, slicing through a handful of them as they came at him. One tried to latch its teeth into him, but they rebounded from the silvered armour and he crushed its skull with a swift blow. As it died it melted away into a single, floating hair.

With a heavy thud the wyvern crashed onto the roof, writhing as a creature burrowed into its skull through the eye. Ivaldi reached the wyvern a moment later and drove his scimitar down, ending the suffering and spearing the daemonic little monster.

A night wind swept over the rooftop, blowing aside the dust, revealing the carnage. One of the roofs had collapsed completely under the wyvern's carcass, cracked beams and broken tiles nestled around the huge reptile's corpse. The two wizards stood surrounded by floating hairs. Their clothes were battered and an angry, bleeding wound scored the hand of the one dressed in black robes.

Ivaldi slipped forwards silently, but the black robed wizard whirled round to face him a tongue of dark red flame snaking from his wand. It sliced through the air, crackling millimetres from Ivaldi's face. Ivaldi threw himself backwards, turning the movement into a sinuous back-flip. He snatched a knife from his belt and hurled the blade in a glittering arc at the wizard who batted it aside with a flick of his wand.

* * *

Harry spun on his heel. His wand sliced the air and an arc of violet light smashed into the goblin. It hurled him backwards, but he rolled with the blow which left only a thin scratch across his breastplate.

Mustaphar strode from the hole ripped in the side of the tower. He slammed his staff down on the tiles. A wave of sound send shards of terracotta skittering along the roof top. Tom and Harry rolled aside, disentangling themselves as they aimed blasts at the sorcerer. He lightly danced between the spells and carried on walking forwards.

Harry pulled himself stiffly to his feet as Tom turned to deal with the goblin. "You can't win this stranger. The guards will be on their way here. Even a carnival can't disguise this for long. Just give up. I don't know what your game is, but trust me when I say it isn't worth it," Harry pleaded, disintegrating a collection of shattered tiles as Mustaphar directed them towards him.

"By the time they are here it will be too late. Stand aside, this matter is between me and your master," Mustaphar replied. Black tentacles of shadow spread outwards from where he stood creeping over the roof tiles towards Harry.

Harry gave a bark of laughter, "Do you have any idea what you've got yourself into? I'm not his apprentice! What the hell is your problem?" With a flick of his wand the tiles were plunged into utter darkness snuffing out the shadows.

"I do as I please. Step out of my path, Voldemort is _mine_!" Mustaphar snapped. He stretched forwards his free hands, fingers curling. The roof shifted as the tiles before Harry melted into a single human hand, reaching for him. Harry swept his wand across transforming the tiles into motes of dust.

Ivaldi flinched at the name as he ducked under Tom's blazing whip again. He rolled away from a volley of fiery bolts which would otherwise have trapped him. He teetered on the roof edge, teeth bared.

Tom moved like lightning, flinging a dagger at Ivaldi he twisted so that almost simultaneously his wand stabbed forwards and a sickly yellow curse slid through the air towards Mustaphar. Ivaldi knocked the dagger aside with his buckler, only for a stunner from Harry to send him flying off the roof.

Mustaphar side-stepped the curse. It dissipated harmlessly on the tower wall. "Is that your best shot?" He asked as he drew a small phial from a fold in his robes. Unstopping it he flicked it with his thumb, hurling the dark, red contents into the air. The blood twisted in the air, for a moment Harry glimpsed dagger like teeth and hollow eyes before a wave of green light Tom's wand struck it.

The blood and magic met with a clap of thunder. The tiles melted. The air ripped and tore, a black well of nothing appeared between them. Harry aimed a blasting curse at the rooftop at his feet, grabbing Tom as the surface collapsed. He leapt into the hole, pulling Tom with him, shooting another blasting curse at the floor below.

As they plunged downwards they heard Mustphar's voice calling out behind them, "A present for the guard. I do hope it doesn't delay them."

They landed softly, cushioned by a charm Tom cast. Dust settled around them. A pile of shattered beams and plaster creaked and collapsed covering them in a fine layer of white dust. The remnants of the ceiling groaned. Tom grabbed Harry's sleeve, hurling him out of the room.

They took the stairs to the front door two at a time. They paused by the long, black, oblong door, opening it cautiously. Two goblins in black leather armour with tarnished silver blades leant within alcoves along the far wall. Noticing the door opening the goblins rushed towards them.

Tom and Harry acted as one. The cobbles melted and then froze around the goblin's feet, fixing them in place. Stone flowed up their legs, climbing higher and higher. Their daggers shattered in their hands. The slivers of metal turned in their course and plunged into the goblin's eyes.

"I _hate_ goblins," Tom grumbled, glancing up and down the street.

Harry peered at the petrified goblins, their stony faces frozen in agony, "Did you do that, or did I?"

"What? Oh why should I care?" Tom asked, although he spared them a glance. "Looks like modern art. Come on."

Somewhere in the city fireworks were beginning to go off, sparkling jets of red, purple and green blasting into the sky like ephemeral trees. Beneath the booming roar there was another sound: the blaring of a great horn.

"The palace knows something's up at least," Harry said, pausing to lean against the corner of a house.

There was the click of a door opening behind them, further up the street. They turned around slowly. Mustaphar stepped out from the doorway. Harry moved, but not fast enough. Mustaphar's staff swept and again a great wind howled down the alley, throwing them against the far wall of a T-junction. There was a snap as Tom's right wrist hit a decorated pillar and his wand hit the cobbles with a clatter.

Harry carved a diamond pattern in the air with his wand before striking through the centre with a final flourish. A golden light blossomed around them

Ivaldi staggered to his feet as he saw the shield rise as his target guarded against an enemy in another street. His armour's enchantments had cushioned the fall, but he felt as if he had cracked a rib. Hot, red, pain tore at his side with each step. He weaved from one side of the alley to the other, his scimitar scrapping over the stones, striking sparks. He tossed his cracked and broken goggles aside.

Harry crouched protectively beside Tom, golden threads of light spilling from his wand. They curled like fronds as they absorbed or dissolved the debris which Mustaphar swept towards them. At last the wind dropped away. Harry straightened up, brushing down his coat. Tom gingerly picked up his wand in his left hand, though he did not stand. Mustaphar leant heavily on his staff, his shoulders hunched.

"Is that it?" Tom scoffed, "Is that call you can do? You're wasting your time. I lead a charmed life." He ignored Harry's incredulous cough.

Mustaphar pushed his staff against the stones and drew himself up to his full height. " _Athal na drac_!"

A jet of roaring, rearing aquamarine fire blasted towards them. Tom raised his wand and green flames met blue. The scent of burning pine and camphor filled the air. Harry flung a stunning spell at Mustaphar but it was swallowed by the maelstrom. Sweat was pouring down Tom's brow, his left hand shook with the effort. The blue fires failed, vanishing as Mustaphar collapsed backwards. The green flames shot forwards and faded as Tom released them.

Mustaphar crawled backwards as Tom advanced. " _Crucio_." The red robed wizard twisted under the curse, howling with pain. Tom banished his body away, pinning it against the alley wall with the sorcerers own staff. Green flames bound Mustaphar to the wall, spread-eagled. Tom's eyes glinted malevolently as he advanced. "You played to win. I respect you, but no-one wins against me. _Avada ..._ "

Something silver shot by Harry. Ivaldi slid over the blacked, scorched stones of the street, leaping between patches of bubbling, red hot stone. He tossed his buckler into the path of a curse from Harry. He dropped the twisted metal, letting it clatter on the stones. Taking his scimitar in both hands, he swung the blade in a smooth arc. Tom spun on his heel, raising his wand. The pale wood gleaming in the red glow from the molten cobbles. Blue light blossomed at the tip. Ivaldi's blade sliced through the delicate turquoise shield. The light died. Tom's yew wand fell into two neatly severed pieces sparks of phoenix fire flickering over it. Blood spilt out from a long, diagonal slash across his chest. There was an instant of silence and then the broken spell exploded outwards throwing Harry and Ivaldi off their feet and pinned Tom to the wall.

Mustaphar, slumped down the wall, his limbs trembling. He threw out his arm and a pulsing ball of iridescent light shot from the tip of his staff. It burnt a perfectly symmetrical hole through Tom's chest and half a foot into the wall behind him. His eyes widened and then he collapsed forwards, his face hit the cobbles with a meaty crunch.

Harry stared at the body, expecting it to stand up again at any moment. There was nothing. Ivaldi stirred feebly, blood leaked from a wound on his forehead. Mustaphar lay a dozen feet away, face down. Rain began to fall from the heavy clouds, even as the fireworks set them on fire. Rain drops steamed as they hit the street. A fine mist began to rise as they sat there. Then from Tom's corpse something darker rose, ash grey and swirling. It surged towards Ivaldi. It gripped him tightly and though he struggled it was to no avail. Then it plunged through him. Harry and Mustaphar watched in shock as gradually the smoke vanished, flowing into Ivaldi's eyes. He cried out in pain, writing, and then he was still.

A voice which was not Ivaldi's issued from his lips, cracked and terrible, "The eyes are the windows to the soul."

Ivaldi's flesh boiled, muscle, skin and bone rippled, bubbled and fused together before flowing together. His eyes were the first to go, running from his skull like spilt egg yolks. Then his teeth fused shut, melting into a single whole and his screams were muffled. Finally his face began to melt away like wax.

Harry turned away, unable to watch.

"I would walk away if I were you," Mustaphar said as he pulled himself to his feet. Dark, inky marks on the back of his hands curled and flowed up and over his fingers.

Harry's lips twitched and he began to laugh in painful, hoarse gasps as the rain plastered his hair against his scalp, "You think I'm just going to walk away? After that? Do you have any idea what I'm going to have to do now?" He broke off, laughing too hard to talk.

"You are mad, deadly. Whilst I have enjoyed myself immensely, if you are will not go then I shall. Good evening to you," Mustaphar turned beginning to walk away.

"Coward," Harry called after him, "you're a coward. Slink off into the night, this isn't the end."

Mustaphar ignored him. Behind him the goblin's bones burst into black flames, crumbling away into nothing. Harry raised his wand, his hand trembling. Mustaphar spun around, eyes narrowed as curse whizzed by his ear.

"That was not well done," Mustaphar growled sidestepping following blast which ran over the walls in tiny streams of light. Rain sizzled as spells cut the air.

The goblin's armour crumpled inwards and a dark figure of ash and smoke rose from the corpse. The rain flashed and steamed as it struck the figure which fled for shelter, melting into a wall. Harry paused as it vanished and Mustaphar's spell struck his coat, knocking him to the side. Harry grunted, pulling himself up the wall.

Mustaphar spun his staff faster and faster, sparks flew from it striking the cobbles. A column of roiling, oily flames sprang into life, red and roaring. Mustaphar flung out his hands and the flames slid forwards, growing taller as they moved, spinning faster and faster.

Harry passed his wand through the air weaving it back and forwards, but to no avail. The fire crackled, eating up the magic. Harry could feel the heat already as it drew closer and closer. He edged backwards till he reached the wall. He darted to his left, slipping on the rain slicked stones, slamming his knee into the ground. He yelped and pushed himself down a covered side alley. The column of fire advanced and behind it came Mustaphar.

A voice of ash and dust spoke from the darkness of the tunnel, a darker shadow in the blackness, "Get away from here Harry. _Please_. I cannot help you. He is protected against what little power I have in this form."

"Really don't need your advice right now Tom," Harry croaked as he stumbled down the passage. "I'm not the one with a hole in my chest."

"Then you wouldn't care to know that your best chance with that curse is to break his concentration?" The shadow rasped, flowing back into the walls.

Harry stumbled onwards. Behind him the fiery column flowed into the passage, flaring until it hit the roof where it spread along the bricks until the corridor was blazing with light. There was a voice from beyond the flames. "You should not have challenged me boy. I have never met my match in a straight fight: magic to magic. You should have run."

Harry jabbed his wand forward shooting silver dart into the fire. They melted into nothing as they struck the twisting flame. He retreated till he was poised at the mouth of the passage. Rain beat on his back. He glanced from side to side, searching for a solution, desperate he struck the side of the tunnel wall with the tip of his wand. Cracks spread like lighting over the bricks, branching and forking as magic weakened natural flaws in the workmanship. He swept his wand back to face the centre of the tunnel and shards of brick were ripped form the walls. The column of fire paused, sputtered and died as Mustaphar defended himself. The fires turned inwards, for an instant there was a single, tiny glowing pearl of white fire, then it vanished. A wave of smoke hit Harry, hurling him from the passageway. He stumbled back and then there was nothing beneath his feet as he toppled over the edge of a flight of steps down into a small courtyard surrounded by a colonnade. Ivy and vines ran up the pillars. Young grapes hung amid wide, dark, leaves. In the corner a small, faint yellow light shone in the low window of a partially submerged shop front. Harry twisted as he fell, hitting the ground awkwardly, skinning his palms. His wand rolled away over the stones.

Mustaphar advanced through the tunnel slowly. He leapt down from the head of the steps, landing lightly on his feet as Harry scrambled to reach his wand. His staff whirled and cracked against the young man's hand. Harry stifled a cry as he rolled backwards out of the way of a second blow. He landed against the window of the shop and with a sharp kick shattered the glass. He rolled through, trusting to the enchantments of his coat to protect him. Despite the coat a long splinter of glass dew a thin gash along his bruised, aching leg.

He heard a flutter of feathers as something further back in the shop started at the noise of breaking glass. He glanced about recognising the shop as the one from which he had bought Moody's eye. He began to limp past the towering shelves, looking for a weapon. Hadn't there been something in here? There was a bang as the door was ripped off its hinges by an arcane blast and Harry tried to limp faster. A stack of items crashed behind him and an instant later he was pinned against the long, wooden counter. His eyes flicked from side to side as he found the item he was looking for: a long, leaf shaped, obsidian, dagger whose edges gleamed as if touched with water. Shadow makers whirred brokenly as he met Mustaphar's gaze.

Mustaphar drew back his staff aiming at Harry's forehead, "I'm sorry about this boy, but you played a game you weren't ready for."

"Erm … could you not commit murder in here?" A querulous voice asked from behind the counter.

Mustaphar froze, "What?"

"It's just it'll mean we'll be shut for ages while the guards investigate and we really can't afford the drop in business ..." Bloodcrust, the whey skinned goblin pulled himself into view, rubbing his long, gnarled fingers together nervously.

"Thanks," Harry wheezed, and snapped his fingers, a small bolt of electricity jumped from his hand striking Mustaphar's arm. He jolted with the shock, and Harry twisted out of his grip. He flung his arm backwards, grabbed the hilt of the dagger and stabbed forwards, piercing Mustaphar's arm. Harry pushed himself forwards using his greater height and weight to knock Mustaphar backwards, sending his staff flying. For a moment they grappled and then Harry managed to wrestle Richard's wand from his pocket, " _Stupefy_."

He sat back, grinning weakly at the goblin. "I don't suppose you could call the guards?"

 


	19. A Noise to Waken the Dead

**A Noise to Waken the Dead**

Harry awoke slowly. He blinked as light streamed down from tall, gothic windows. There were white, crisp sheets pulled up to his chest and a faint spell of potion-induced cleanliness pervaded the air. Harry groaned quietly.

"Please don't let this be a hospital …" he muttered, rolling over onto his side. He patted his hand over the brown blur of a bedside table in search of his glasses. His hand knocked against a crystal glass of water, it rolled off the table and shattered with a crash, water splashed over his sheets.

"Ah, Herr Schmidt, you are awake," said a clipped precise female voice as shoes clicked over a flagstone floor. "Is there anything I can do for you? _Reparo. Evanesco_." The glass leapt back onto the table. Shattered pieces drew together, melding into a single whole and the water vanished.

"My glasses, please," Harry answered, his voice was rough and cracked, "and perhaps some more water."

"Of course Herr Schmidt. _Aguamenti._ " There was the swift, efficient sound as she moved and then Harry felt his glasses were pressed into his hand.

"Thank you," he said, then after a paused he added, "where am I?"

"The Royal Stuttgart Infirmary," said the woman kindly. "I am Healer Vemarbung, I am in charge of this ward. If you have any issues simply ring the bell and I will be here to help. The princess personally assigned me to your case." She gestured to a small golden bell on the bedside table, next to which stood a curling lamp of softly glowing silver metal.

Harry nodded dazedly, "Right, um, thank you. Look, not to be rude, but do you think that I could leave … erm … now?"

"Oh no, absolutely not. I need to run a number of tests, and there is a good deal of paperwork. Now if there's nothing else several people are very interested in you," she cast him a severe glance. "Don't even think of getting up."

Harry smiled weakly, "I promise. I'll be good." He lay back as she left, propping himself up on the soft white pillows, trying to piece together events.

He remembered stunning Mustaphar, and the guards arriving and then … he knew he had been hurt. The medi-wizard with the squad of guards had said something about having him properly examined. He had quietly pocketed the sacrificial dagger and its sheath while no-one was looking, he had stood up and then the world had fallen away. The question was how long he had been there then and where the others were, Tom in particular. He groaned again, rubbing his temples.

He looked around the room, taking it in. The walls were plain, unadorned stone, white washed pillars rose in steep arches, between which lay the beds. The beds were long, narrow and made of wrought-iron with globe like bed-knobs at each corner. The windows, now that Harry could see them clearly showed the brilliant blue of a summer's day with a few wispy clouds in the sky. Each and every one of them was identical. Between them ran long, silvery mirrors, reflecting the light of hours past. Unsurprising really, Harry thought, sunlight was always more comforting than moonlight. The ceiling was plain, white plaster, between dark, stained beams. About twenty minutes later there was a mummer from the entrance to the room and there came the slip-slap of leather shoes on the floor. Harry looked up to see the steward of the city, Gonzalo Merkel, approaching, his face pinched and drawn. His robes were a mottled white and brown like a thrush's feathers and swept over the floor as he hurried up the room.

"Ah, Herr Doctor. How are you?" Harry asked.

"Not well Mr Potter, not well," Merkel answered, running a hand through his thinning hair. "Matters are in chaos. Despite your promises you have only made matters worse."

"That's a little unfair. I've been doing what I was meant to: one of the creatures hunting your people is no longer a threat."

"One? One? There are more? Oh, of course there are. Do you have any idea how much trouble you've caused? I have a woman from a village of frankly laughable importance demanding an investigation; the French ambassador heard about the little magic display yesterday and is asking questions; a potion seller you visited was tortured and murdered; then there is yesterday itself! We had to close a rift to the Void, in the middle of the city! You caused several thousand crowns worth of damage in a residential district. There is a sorcerer in gaol who claims to have last come here in the days of Prince Ulfric I. Relations with the goblins are _severely_ strained. They have accused us of permitting a massacre. _You_ have done nothing to ease Stuttgart's relations with Britain. Do you have any idea of the efforts that her highness is going to sort this out?" Merkel ran out of breath, his thin shoulders shaking.

"Almost none of that is my fault …" Harry began.

"And there's a talking crow claiming to be the representative of the Black Forest itself demanding an audience!"

"It's a rook actually."

"I wouldn't care if it was a flaming pigeon," Merkel snapped.

"I think she is quite touchy on the subject. Honestly I can't imagine what you want me to do about it, I'm only one man," Harry pointed out reasonably, pointed by meeting the steward's gaze.

"Do? Nothing," Merkel admitted, bowing his head. He perched on the edge of the bed. "Mr Potter, I need, the Princess needs, assurances that you are making progress. We need to know that she isn't exposing herself to a British ploy without benefit to her people."

"You have Arabella as evidence that we're making progress," Harry pointed out.

The steward sniffed, "A third generation refugee; not quite the type of person we are trying to protect. There's a war coming, Mr Potter. They are marching in France, demanding vengeance for Calais. Malfoy is only making matters worse, every comment he makes is a thinly veiled insult. Livia Malfoy is the only voice of reason left in Britain!"

Harry suppressed the urge to shake the man, "I am not responsible for the sins of a nation, Herr Doctor. I am close to bringing a resolution to this matter, that rook is essential to it. So is the girl."

"Do you have anything to show for your trip, besides this supposed victory?"

"Oh yes. I know roughly what we're dealing with now. I need to be up and out as soon as it can be arranged," Harry insisted.

"By all means, it shouldn't take long," Merkel promised. He shifted uncomfortably, "I'm afraid you were taken here as a … polite form of arrest. However, once everything has been cleared up you will be free to go. The sorcerer has been remarkably forthcoming. He seems to be enjoying the whole affair if anything."

"Well I'm glad someone is," Harry said sourly.

"The girl wants to visit you. I will send her in when I leave, which," he glanced at his watch, "must be soon. There are a great many items still left to deal with. Many of which are your fault," he added sternly. Golden sunlight lightened his expression, suggesting tiredness rather than anger.

"I _am_ sorry. I do apologise for people trying to kill me," Harry said sardonically, "I meant no harm."

"Who does Mr Potter? Who does?" Merkel asked dryly.

"Tom?"

"Ah, yes that is a fair point. Your friend did have quite the reputation," Merkel admitted, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

"I wouldn't get used to the past tense Herr Doctor. Tom can be remarkably persistent," Harry warned.

Merkel gave a small smile, "Mr Potter, no man can 'persist' through a ten centimetre wide hole in his chest; despite what the legends say about your friend. I wish you a very good day. You should be allowed out in a few hours." He stood and walked away, passing by the healer's office to alert her to his departure.

Harry wriggled deeper into the sheets, closing his eyes, ready to slip back into sleep. He did not have long before he was interrupted.

"How are you bearing up?" Arabella's voice cut through his thoughts. She moved almost silently down the ward, glancing from side to side. She was wearing light grey trousers and a thick, green jumper, her red hair bound back in a pony-tail.

"I'm fine. How are you? You seem a little … well something," Harry finished uselessly, sitting up again.

"This place, it makes me think of Frederick," she gave a small, wistful sigh. "He'd have loved to work somewhere like this."

Harry nodded, "I'm sorry. What about you? I hadn't expected to see you here."

"Richard and Kitty are still recovering. Richard should be up in a few hours they say. I thought that someone ought to check up on you after Tom … after Tom passed away like that. The guards have recorded and catalogued the evidence so I brought you your belongings, and his," she explained, pulling a small backpack from her back before sitting down in a small wooden chair.

"Thank you. That's really kind of you," said Harry, unable to meet her gaze as she began to pull out items from the bag: Harry's coat and wand; Tom's robe, or at least what remained of it; a set of slim crystal phials filled with various substances; a long, slim, yew wand, sliced in two, and a pair of sleek, black, leather shoes.

"It's the least I could do," she looked at him expectantly as if he were about to break down into tears.

Harry searched desperately for a topic of conversation, "Erm, where's Cor? I would have thought she'd be sticking around."

Arabella sighed, "Apparently she's never seen a city before. In between demands to see the Princess she's been off sightseeing. Look, Harry, I know how tempting it is to divert the conversation … but if you need anyone to talk to about Tom I'm here."

Harry blinked in confusion, "I'm not sure I quite understand; he hasn't done anything has he?"

"Harry … he's dead," Arabella said, slowly as if trying to impart the information to a child.

"Ah, yes, about that … there's something I need to tell you …"

"Anyone could see how close you were. I'm not sure quite what sort of relationship the two of you had, beneath the bluster: lovers, friends, brothers maybe, but just remember you're not alone," she said giving a reassuring smile.

"Well it's just that, I know I'm not. Tom isn't really the sort of person who's likely to go away," he smiled wryly.

"Do you think he'll become a ghost?" Arabella asked surprised, "I wouldn't have thought that of him."

"No, I really don't think he will. However, I getting the feeling that he's not going to leave me alone ..." Harry began again.

"I'm glad you feel like that, but just remember to talk to someone if there are dark times," Arabella insisted.

"You're kind, but I've lost a great many people over my life and …" Harry paused, he had caught sight of a movement in the large mirror on the opposite wall. It reflected evening light, a soft, red-gold, tinged with a deep, spreading purple.

In the mirror stood a tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed man, dressed in perfectly cut, black robes; he had high cheek bones and long, pianist's fingers. It was Tom. Harry glanced to the corresponding space in the ward. There was nothing there.

Harry opened his mouth to explain to Arabella, "Arabella, there's something I've got to tell you about Tom, and you're not going to like it ..."

The figure in the mirror shook its head, slowly, warningly, a languid, patronising movement.

"Yes?" Arabella said, meeting Harry's gaze, "what is it?"

Harry hesitated, there would be consequences if he told Arabella now. "He isn't a good man, not by a long shot. As I said before, you can't trust him, no-one should. As bad as you think I am, he is a thousand, thousand times worse," he paused holding her gaze. "If he died you should celebrate it, not mourn. Sometime soon I'll tell you more, but for a little while yet I can't."

Arabella looked at him quizzically, her head tilted to one side. "You think he's still alive don't you?"

Harry glanced at the figure in the mirror, it had found a chair somewhere and was half-sitting, half-reclining in it. "You know what? I'd lay a bet on it."

"Harry, I had to identify his body," Arabella said quietly.

He let the conversation drop, "Actually I need to ask you a couple of things. Do you mind?"

"No, not at all," she said apparently relieved that the moment of tension seemed to have passed. "Thinking of that I picked up a book for you. The library didn't have much on daemons but this might be worth something." She said passing his a slim volume.

"Thank you," Harry said, taking the small book. It was bound in soft blue leather with the title picked out in gold characters. "This looks promising, 'Of the Gates of Hell: a Treatise' by A. Aziraphale. Hmm, published in the nineteen thirties, that's quite old. Good condition too …" he opened it at the first page. "'Though the doorways to the home of daemonkind are many most have been sealed against incursion. Fear not, dear reader, for the forces of Hell are bound in a prison only the insane would open. Blood is the key to almost all rituals which may crack open the doors between worlds: an unwilling sacrifice to open; a willing sacrifice to close …' Well it's not wrong, but we knew that anyway. They're basically portals, and I know all about the unwilling sacrifice part. Personal experience and all," Harry muttered, shuddering as he put the book down. "It may be worth looking at it we find nothing else. I'll have a look later. I was wondering if you would tell me what you can about your brother and his disappearance. It may seem a little insensitive, but the steward," he hesitated for a moment, "alerted me to the necessity of speed."

Arabella turned her head away, looking up the hall. "There isn't a great deal I can tell you. Ambrose … he was, we were never close. I don't know how, but he joined the _Rainblut_ , a society for the _pure of blood_ ," she spat the phrase. "I'm not sure he ever felt that he was at home in Altewald. The society was a way to show he was able to distance himself from his family. When he disappeared I supposed he had left to join them. There were people who came to the house at times, more and more after father and mother died. If I'm honest … I was almost glad when he left. He betrayed all of us, all that our family fought and suffered for with his stupid, bigoted beliefs," she broke off her voice dying away. Golden motes of dust floated in the false sun beams. In the silvery mirror Tom was listening intently, leaning forward, eyes gleaming.

"I think I understand," Harry interjected, before she could say anything more. He narrowed his eyes at Tom in warning, "there's no need to say more. I doubt you actually have that much to say which would help. There is just one thing though. Would you consider carrying on helping us? Your skills with wards could be invaluable. I'm sure that the Princess could be persuaded to recompense you for your time …"

She tensed like an animal in the headlights at the suggestion, emotions warred visibly over her face, "It was one thing when I was protecting my home …"

"Arabella," Harry began trying to inject as much sympathy as possible into his voice, "I know that this is hard for you, but you said your brother betrayed your family; why not expunge that stain? Help others. Maybe we will even help him, perhaps he's still out there. You should never give up on family," he added.

"Give me time. I need to think. There are too many things going on. I have other commissions I should be working on," Arabella replied hurriedly, standing up. "I … I'll go now." She gave him a small smile, picked up the rucksack and almost ran down the hall. The healer emerged from her office as Arabella passed and followed her, clipboard in hand.

Harry watched as Tom stood up from his seat and walked forwards, vanishing as he reached the surface of the mirror. There was a pause and then a voice spoke softly from the bedside lamp, "Good afternoon, Boy. I am glad to see that you are in one piece. It took me quite some time to find you, you know. This room is well hidden."

Harry looked at the lamp. It was made from half a dozen long ribbons of metal which formed a twisted ball. Now though there were sections of Tom's face visible behind the surface as if he were looking outwards from behind the bars of a silvery prison.

"Hello Old Man," Harry said softly, "I thought I'd be seeing you before long."

"Enough pleasantries. I need my body returned to me," Tom demanded. "This form is … intolerable."

"You're not dallying," Harry commented. "How times change."

"You gave me your oath, Boy," Tom whispered, his face twisting, writhing in the metal.

"I know, I know. Would you like to tell me how?" Harry asked.

"Yes, yes. Of course. Now, you simply need to pour the lifeblood of three victims on …" Tom began.

"No, not that," Harry interrupted.

"You really are no fun. Do not worry none of that sort of thing is necessary. Those phials contain most of what you need, the majority of the rest can be obtained from the house-elves. All you need now is my last body and some raw material for me to mould."

"Raw material?" Harry asked warily.

Tom hesitated, "It will not be far out of your way. I simply need a fresh cadaver. You will need to go to the morgue for my body anyway. A male would be the best choice, there might be complications with a female."

Harry rubbed his temples, "You do realise they won't just give me the bodies if I just ask for them?"

"Which is why you will need to steal them. I would advise taking your invisibility cloak," Tom remarked, retreating to the large mirror opposite the bed. "It must be within the space of the witching hour."

"You're enjoying this aren't you?" Harry asked, sourly, rooting through his coat pockets until he found Richard's wand, then he picked up his own, checking it for charms. There were none. He followed the same procedure with his other possessions.

"As much as I can while my very being is to shreds every second. Even appearing as a reflection is little better than torture and then at least I gain a measure of protection. If you had not obliterated the bones of my ancestors this entire ritual would be a great deal simpler. "You will also need a large cauldron by the way, and seven white candles."

"I'll ask the house-elves," Harry promised.

"Just be discreet," Tom instructed, a flicker of pain running over his face.

"I promise not to tell any of them that I'll be practicing necromancy, upon my word of honour," Harry assured him with a small smile. "What do you want to do about your wand by the way?"

Tom considered the question. "I would suggest cremation, but I believe I might incorporate it into the ritual. I will work out the possible permutations as you plan your trip to the morgue."

"I was going to wing it actually," Harry replied as he reached for the golden bell on the table. "For now though I think it's time to see if I can leave yet."

"Do you know who the man attacked us was by the way? Had you done anything to him?" Harry asked, his hand poised beside the bell.

"I have not the faintest idea. I could be forgetting something, but I think not. I would remember someone like him, there are few versed in as many ancient spells. They are clumsy and require raw power, but like many ancient things they have a certain beauty," Tom replied thoughtfully. Then his face turned into a blank mask as another wave of agony crashed through him. "It is certainly something that will require consideration."

"It wasn't a question of his magic. It was a question of whether you knew why he attacked you," Harry sighed. "I suppose you have a point. 'We are not now that strength which in old days moved heaven and earth' are we?"

"Tom smiled sadly, "Not quite. I remember the days when magic sprang to our command so fast that the air burned and the Earth bled beneath the weight of spells."

"We've become rusty. With time it'll come back," Harry said confidently. "With time."

"If we live that long, which I doubt," answered Tom, grimacing as he shifted uncomfortably. "Hush! Do you hear that?"

There was the clicking of shoes on stone as the healer returned to the ward. Harry looked away from Tom for a moment. When he looked back the older man had vanished. The mirror held no more than it ought to.

* * *

Harry slipped silently down the long passage of golden stone. Flickering orange torches lit the hall, throwing the stonework's dips and crevices into stark relief. He paused every now and then to tap the broken parts of Tom's wand; they flowed with a faint blue light as Harry's guiding spell pulled them towards Tom's corpse. In his other hand, alongside his wand Harry carried a small hand mirror which reflected a somewhat different corridor, where Tom prowled amid dank, wet stones, and cold blue fire.

"Move faster," Tom hissed. His voice echoed twice over in both the mirror and in the corridor at once creating a strange harmony. "I don't have forever." He paused considering the statement, "Actually never mind, I have all the time in the world!" He broke out into desperate laughter, only stopping as a painful spasm wracked his ethereal form and the laughter died.

"Do you think she'll agree to coming along?" Harry asked as he took a sharp left down a passage which sunk into the citadel's depths.

"It depends Boy, it depends," Tom murmured. "The question is are you stupid enough to tell her who I really am? She will run a thousand miles if she learns the truth; if she has any sense."

"What do you suggest then?" Harry asked. "Lie to her?" The blue light surrounding the wand pieces was growing stronger and the air was growing colder and colder. His breath was already beginning to mist in the air. He pulled his coat tighter around him, glancing from side to side.

"It seems the simplest solution. As long as the lie is maintained she is more likely to stay," Tom pointed out with a yawn.

"It gives you leverage though," Harry countered. The turnings in the passageway were interspersed with alcoves filled with statues of long dead wizards in antique robes.

"Only if I am willing to pay the price. She is still a skilled ward-mistress, for the moment she is a valuable asset," Tom replied calmly. "We're getting close, I can almost feel my old home. Flesh, so many take it for granted; it truly is a marvel."

"Do you think it'll be guarded?" Harry asked quietly as he slipped into a side passage, hiding in the shadows as footsteps approached and then passed by.

"I doubt it," Tom replied, "a couple of locking charms and an orderly or two. Possibly not even that. Not many fear necromancers."

"I take it you've broken into a morgue before then?" Harry enquired, hovering between amusement and horror. Tom nodded calmly as Harry reached into his pocket to pull out his invisibility cloak. His fingers brushed over the aged snitch and the sheathed, sacrificial dagger, before finally clasping around the light, shimmering fabric of the cloak. He pulled it out, tenderly letting the soft folds flow like water under his fingers. Harry paused wrapping the cloak around his left arm before continuing down the corridor. He sheathed his wand, though the fingers of his right hand were never far from the hilt.

The corridor split in two: one way wound up into the fortress via a flight of stairs just visible around the corner; the other way was wider with a groove worn into the stone by the passage of many feet. The lights were dimmer, more sombre, flickering hearts of black fire seated within the orange.

"They've been dealing with dead for a long time here, haven't they?" Harry whispered, his voice fell into the natural tone of respect most feel for the dead.

"Indeed. As long as this citadel has stood I should not wonder. See these larger blocks on either side? They're old passages, blocked off, and heavily warded. The lords of the city perhaps ..." Tom murmured, cautiously rather than respectfully. "I wonder what treasures these walls conceal."

"How can you tell?" Harry asked, pausing to listen.

"It is easier to see the magic in this form. Chains of light and power, shields of impenetrable wards. They bound things here, long ago. I hope that this palace never falls to an enemy who does not understand it," Tom shivered delightedly at the thought. "Something which generated so much fear, so much effort. It's inspiring."

"You are not normal," Harry muttered doing his best to ignore the walls.

"Neither of us can be described as normal," Tom replied. "If we were we'd probably have to get jobs, wives, lazy children …" he shuddered. "No thank you, I will prefer freedom."

"I'd like a choice," Harry said, halting as they came to a dead end where a single, long, granite block barred their passage. "Damn it, I thought we were close. Which way now?"

"What are you talking about? There's nothing in the way," Tom asked turning his face to look out of the mirror towards Harry, trying to read his expression.

"Nothing …? Oh, an illusion? I suppose it's possible," Harry gingerly prodded the rock with his foot. It tapped dully. "Seems solid enough."

He leaned forwards, for a moment nothing happened, and then his shoulder sunk into the rock as if it were syrup. It flowed out slowly around him, sucking him inwards. He tried to pull back, but to no avail. The rock drew him inwards inch by slow inch. At last he took a deep, desperate breath and closed his eyes as the stone wrapped itself around him. There was a close, dry senstation and then he was out on the other side in a small, round chamber. Two trolleys lay on either side of a solid looking oak door. Although there was no handle there was a button, sewn onto a sheet of canvas beside the door, above which ran the legend, " _Um dragen zu offen_."

Harry pushed. The door slid back, letting a wave of freezing air wash over them. "Trust wizards to think a button should be a button."

He crept into the adjoining chamber, stone slabs lay in rows like a thousand altars. Some bore bodies, concealed between sheets of black cloth. A slight mist rippled on the floor like a ghostly sea as Harry picked his way between the corpses, following the guidance spell. The light was a cold phosphorescence which flickered over the surfaces.

"Which one do you suppose it is?" Harry asked, scanning the shrouded bodies.

"Onwards. I can almost feel it," Tom commanded, his voice almost forcing Harry forwards.

There were footsteps and the door slid open. Harry ducked down, crouching behind one of the stone slabs. There was the squeaking of wheels and the murmur of voices, a chuckle crackled in the air. The wheels stopped and Harry held his breath. There was a slither and a thump, then after a moment's pause the voices moved away again. Harry breathed out and stood up. The room was empty once more. He took a step forwards and the segments of the wand twitched in his palm. He pulled back the sheet on the nearest corpse. A stranger, unhealthily pale and bloodless, a pale white Y-shaped scar marking his chest lay on the slab. Harry replaced the sheet and slipped around to the next corpse. It was Tom's body, long, pale and slender, almost inhuman in repose, a hole ripped through its chest.

"I wonder what I could do with this. No necromancer has ever been able to try it," Tom murmured before breaking down into a series of painful coughs. In the mirror his form flickered. It twisted, flesh melting from pale to bone white, eyes flashing red, and then he straightened up, returning to normal.

"Another time," Harry said, drawing his wand and aiming it at the carcass.

"No!" Tom surged from the mirror in a ragged, black mist. "No magic. We must ask a great deal of this flesh and any more magic could disrupt the entire process."

"You want me to haul two corpses through the castle, unseen, without magic?" Harry asked incredulously.

Tom nodded, or at least nodded as clearly as a black shadow can.

"Great," Harry said unenthusiastically. He looked around, there was a trolley by the door. With a sigh he wrapped the sheet around Tom's body and heaved it onto his shoulder. He lay it down on the metal trolley, shoved it to one side and turned back to the room. "Do we really need another body?"

"Do you want to be sworn into my service and lose a hand?" Tom asked coolly.

"Fine. Any preference?" Harry asked, trying to avoid considering what he was doing.

"I will reshape the flesh as it suits me," Tom assured him, "but if you could find a tall man it would make the task easier."

"Tall it is then." Harry scanned the rows of bodies. There were about fifty in total, still lying on the slabs. He wandered through the rows, trying to guess which was the longest without lifting the black cloths draped across them. Picking a likely candidate he carefully rolled the black cloth around it. "Sorry about this, needs must when the devil drives."

"Are you certain it's male?" Tom asked anxiously as Harry heaved it into a fireman's lift.

"Yes, definitely male," Harry promised as he shifted its position slightly. "Come on."

It took some effort to fit the two corpses onto the trolley together. In the end Harry was forced to take a third cloth and tie them together with it. Finally he draped the invisibility cloak over the bodies and the trolley as one. It hung some way above the floor but for the most part the macabre cargo was concealed.

He pushed the trolley out of the door, leaving the frosty air and passing back through the antechamber. He wheeled the trolley along, senses singing as he teetered on the knife-edge of anticipation. The bodies wobbled, but bound as they were to the metal frame they could not fall. The trolley bumped as he forced it up the slope over the cracks and fissures in the stonework, past the sealed tombs.

A voice broke his concentration, pulling him from his reverie. "What are you doing? Are you alright?" He looked up into the half-anxious, half-suspicious brown eyes of a young man with sandy hair and a plain, black robe, buttoned down the front.

"Ah, me? Nothing, nothing at all … I was just trying to find the bathroom ..." Harry tried weakly. He flicked the brake on with his foot moving round the trolley till he was almost face to face with the sandy haired boy. Harry's right hand hovered near his wand.

"The bathroom?" The boy asked, incredulously. Then Harry's coat tangled with the invisibility cloak, pulling it back from the trolley. The boy fumbled for his wand,

"Bugger," Harry swore, drawing his wand in a swift sweep, " _Avada Kedavra_!"

The boy's eyes flew open in shock and then green light hit his chest. He crumpled. Harry leant forward, catching him and laid him carefully down on the floor. There was a moment's silence.

"Well, now I am impressed. I would not have thought that you had it in you," Tom remarked. It seemed to Harry that underneath the surprise there was a tinge of disappointment.

"It's just a stasis spell. Roughly the same colour, silently cast. If you say the killing curse at the same time people don't tend to bother to shield," Harry explained as he rolled the boy over onto the side. "I'm sorry about this but … _obliviate_."

Tom was silent, for a moment, presumably processing the information. "An intriguing concept. Not one I have seen used before."

"It's the logical step for duelling. An extra bluff, but you have to be pretty experienced to manage it," Harry remarked, releasing the brake on the trolley and pushing it onwards.

"I am sure that I will master it when I have a body again," Tom replied with perfect assurance,

Harry rolled his eyes.

* * *

Far above the city in a tower where the only light was the soft, clear starlight, Mustaphar lay back on a rough bed, staring at the ceiling of his cell, his eyes tracing the tiny cracks which patterned the plaster.

Imprisonment was not a novel experience for him. As cells went this one was relatively comfortable, the mattress was good quality and though the food was not likely to win any awards it was edible. He hummed softly to himself, times like these were blessing, brief periods in which to relax and appreciate life. He paused in his humming, realising that in all probability he was the last being on earth to remember that tune. He hummed the next verse and closed his eyes, remembering the way things had been, and considering what to do next.

* * *

Harry levitated the giant cauldron into the centre of the room. It was, he thought the same one which he had first been given after his initial arrival in Stuttgart, though its location within the castle appeared to have changed. He had cleared away the fine carpet and in accordance with Tom's instructions drawn a seven pointed star around the cauldron with excruciating precision. At each point lay a long, white candle, fixed firmly onto the floor. Beside the candles waited the seven elements of the ritual: Tom's body; a dish of still water; the body taken from the morgue; a phial of blood which Harry could not help but feel somewhat uneasy about; the broken fragments of Tom's wand; a pile of ash collected from the burnt remains of ash, yew and oak upon a silver plate, and finally within the seventh limb of the star Tom himself in his shifting spirit form. Harry himself was the only element which could move freely throughout the ritual, and even then he was not under any circumstances to touch the lines of the star.

"Are you sure this will work?" Harry asked as he arranged the last of the logs underneath the cauldron, seven different trees: ash, oak, yew, holly, hawthorn, pine and beech.

"Yes," Tom answered, his voice had become a weak, high rasp of air. "Almost certain in any case. For obvious reasons I have not been able to attempt this version before. Arithmantically speaking it should work. The elements balance one another. I would estimate ninety-seven percent probability of success."

Harry nodded, more to himself than to Tom. "Whose blood is it Tom?"

"Believe me when I tell you that you are better off not knowing," Tom rasped wearily.

"Tell me or I'll leave you like this for as long as I can," Harry threatened.

"Afterwards," Tom assured him.

"I'm not going to like it am I?" Harry asked grimly.

"No, but you would not no matter who it had belonged to," Tom pointed out reasonably.

"Of course not! This _necromancy_ Tom," Harry insisted.

"At least it doesn't require a living sacrifice," Tom said with a touch of wry amusement

Harry looked up at the clock on the wall as he checked the privacy spells which hung in the air around the star. The clock's hand's hung at half past eleven. He sat silently in the circle around the cauldron, avoiding straying into the points where the various ritual elements lay.

"What do you want to do about a wand after this?" Harry asked quietly.

"Buy a new one," Tom snapped. "Thankfully the purchase of phoenix wands was never banned on the continent. No other core is capable of channelling such power."

"Except perhaps thestral hair, if the legends are true," Harry pointed out.

"If the legends are true," Tom admitted.

Time ticked by, slow seconds trickling away. At last the clock struck twelve and beyond the castle the bells began to chime the twelve slow strokes of midnight. On the seventh bell Harry lit the wood beneath the cauldron with a jet of fire. Flames roared up, striking the blackened metal base. Heat spread quickly through the enchanted metal and the water began to bubble and boil.

"Flesh of the predecessor, you shall renew your lord," Harry intoned, a look of distaste crossing his face as he heaved Tom's corpse onto his shoulder and let it slide into the hissing water. Pale grey steam erupted upwards in a swirling pillar.

One, two, three steps, Harry tipped the dish of water into the cauldron, reading from the script Tom had dictated to him earlier, "Water which has never touched the earth, you will renew his spirit." The water from the dish ran like oil over the surface of the bubbling liquid in the cauldron before flashing and crackling. Blue lightning ran through the grey steam.

Harry could feel the magic building, a cool pressure numbing all sensation. "Flesh of the sacrifice, unknowingly taken, you shall revive him." The shrouded body slipped into the water, the cloth pulling back for an instant to reveal a white haired man of about fifty years of age, eyes closed peacefully. White smoke joined the grey steam, whirling around it in a billowing mass, rising to the ceiling, pushing at the boundaries of the circle.

"Blood of the foe, unknowingly given, you shall renew your enemy," Harry said, tipping the small, crystal phial of blood into the cauldron. He hesitated for a moment as the blood dripped out, plunging into the seething waters of the cauldron. Shapes moved in the steam; wild, semi-human figures, andthe sound of battle echoed faintly in the air.

Harry moved on kneeling down gingerly to pick up the remains of Tom's wand. "Yew and phoenix feather, grant power to your companion in this your final task." Harry turned and let them fall, spiralling into the smoke and steam. Green flames shot through the vapour crackling and leaping as the air howled and screamed.

Harry forced himself onwards through the tidal wave of power mounting inside the circle as it span faster and faster. He could feel Tom risking the connection between them to urge him onwards. The air itself resisted his movements and then he was there. He picked up the dish with its neat pile of ash and flung it into the cauldron, crying out, "Ash, yew and oak, grant him life once more!"

It flashed like burning magnesium as it flew through the air and then as it landed in the cauldron the smoke was sucked back down into the cauldron. The air was perfectly still. Tom moved forwards as fast as he could move, a black mist surging through the air, calling out the final words himself, "Spirit to flesh, flesh to bone, bone to blood, blood to magic. I shall be reborn!"

There was a deafening crash as Tom entered the cauldron, it split from top to bottom and the water rose in a swirling ball of darkness. The candles went out in a single whoosh, their light sucked from them. Harry stumbled backwards and his foot brush the chalky outline of the circle. The room shook to its very foundations and then from the water a form began to coalesce. Liquid slid into the shape of a man, forming limbs, bones, flesh and blood. Lord Voldemort had returned. The cauldron melted away and reformed as a slim, black robe around him.

Light returned to the room. Tom rolled his shoulders, twisting his neck revelling in the sensation of flesh. He was not quite the same as he had been: he was still tall, but he was older now, somewhere in his mid-forties; black hair held the faintest traces of grey; he was slim, and his face was almost hawklike; high cheekbones framed hooded, deep-set, grey eyes, a sharp nose and strong jawline; his skin was fair rather than pale now, and on his left hand he was missing the first knuckle of his little finger.

Tom noticed the imperfection and scowled, glancing towards where Harry stood at the edge of the circle, his foot brushing the chalk. "You should thank your lucky stars that your lack of care did no more harm than this," he said bitterly, his voice rasped slightly, cool and crisp.

There was a knock at the door. "Open up in the name of the guard!"


	20. The Gardens of the Night

**The Gardens of the Night**

_Stuttgart_

A fist thumped on the door again. "Open this door or we shall be forced to enter with extreme prejudice," a voice warned.

Harry's eyes darted from the scorch marks; to the star drawn on the floor; to the guttering candles, and finally to Tom who stood in the centre of it all fingers flexing for a wand.

"Just a moment," Harry called.

"Pass me your wand and open the door," Tom said, holding out a hand. "I swear that I will return it to you unharmed once they have left us."

Harry hesitated, but at the sound of the guards shuffling backward he tossed his wand across to Tom and pulled the door open. He stepped out into the path of half a dozen wands. Golden-robed figures crouched and stood behind what little cover the corridor provided.

"Good evening. May I help you?" Harry asked, leaning against the door frame. The wands were trained on him.

"Stand aside sir. We need to search these rooms," one of the guards ordered. Five silver stars glittered on his shoulder.

"Of course, is anything the matter?" Harry stepped backwards into the room slowly. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest which felt all too vulnerable without a wand.

"The wards of the citadel registered a power surge from this area. Recent events suggest illegal activities," the captain explained. He was about six foot two with broad shoulders, bright green eyes and a mane of russet hair. His eyes widened as he took stock of the room.

Harry turned and stifled a twitch. The room looked as if it had been the centre of a war zone. The floor was scorched with blasting curses, chunks had been torn from the walls and in one corner an antique chair quietly smouldered. Tom sat quietly in the chair's counterpart, reading a book from a nearby shelf.

Tom looked up, smiling blithely, the expression did not suit his new face, "Ah, I knew we were kicking up too much of a ruckus. I do hope we haven't disturbed anyone." He gave the guard a benevolent glance.

The captain stared helplessly at the room. "What … what happened here?"

"We were sparring," Tom said, a touch of condescension seeping into his tone. He blinked slowly. "My apologies if our little duel forced you to come all the way up here. I can repair the damage if you like, we would have but then you knocked …"

The guard gaped. "But the level of magic we were registering, it _couldn't_ have been a duel. I'm going to have to insist we search these rooms sir."

"By all means," Harry said, taking his cue from Tom, "I hadn't realised that we were causing such a problem. I thought that in comparison to yesterday this would have been quite a quiet matter."

"Yesterday?" The captain asked, still stupefied by the devastation.

"That little battle I was engaged in in the city," Harry prompted. He walked over to the window and threw it open, letting in cool, night air. A thin sliver of the waning moon drifted through the clouds. "I believe you have the assailant under arrest, an African sorcerer."

"That was you? Er … yes, sir," the captain glanced nervously around the room.

"Are you really surprised?" Harry asked, imitating Tom's smirk. "I _am_ Harry Potter. I fought in the last great war and brought the last true dark lord to a standstill." He turned, smiling pleasantly as he fixed the guard with a stare. Tom fidgeted irritably in his seat, lips pursed

"Ah, erm, yes, sir," the captain took a step backwards. "You know this really looks quite in order to me, _but_ we do have to do a sweep. Particularly given who you say you are." He waved his hand and two others entered.

Harry sauntered across to the captain. "Are we not supposed to duel in our rooms then?"

"No sir, there are designated areas within the palace for such activities," the captain replied staring straight ahead.

"May I ask what it is you are searching for?" Tom asked, turning his hooded eyes towards the guard captain. "Your men are searching for active enchantments, concealment spells … what _are_ you looking for?"

The two guards finished. "They're not here, sir," said the shorter of the two, sheathing her wand and handing the captain a scrap of parchment.

"Ah, thank you Lione," the captain nodded curtly. "I am sorry for disturbing you gentlemen. Two bodies were taken from the morgue earlier. One of them belonged to a close associate of yours, sir."

"What? Taken? Why?" Harry asked putting on a shocked expression.

"We are pursuing several lines of investigation sir," the captain assured him. "The strength of the magic led us to suspect they might be being used for black magic here. In any case the spells identify you two have been the only ones to enter this room, save for us. While we may need to speak with you again I apologise for any inconvenience."

"Not at all. You've only been doing your job after all," Harry said, following the guards to the door.

"Thank you sir. Good night," the captain paused for a moment, "please remember in future to use a duelling hall."

Harry smiled and shut the door. Tom leapt to his feet and swept the wand across the room. Silent spells flickered over the walls and furnishings. Harry opened his mouth but Tom lifted a finger to his lips. It took several minutes before he was satisfied. Then with a delicate twist and flick of the wand the damage to the room began to fade away. Dust sunk back into the blasted walls and floor. Broken furniture righted itself and flowed together seamlessly. Flames burnt backwards, unblackening the wood before fading into nothing once more.

"Are you quite finished?" Harry asked.

Tom nodded and tossed the holly and phoenix wand back to him. "There I keep my word."

"Do you think they believe we're innocent?" Harry asked as he lit a fire in the grate.

"Innocent? I doubt it. I am personally retaining the majority of the ritual's magic and that little display I left for them masked the truth. Not to mention I _am_ the bodies they are looking for _._ If they suspect anything they cannot prove it," Tom answered as he pulled a chair up to the fire, examining his new body. "Do you happen to have a mirror?"

* * *

_The Ministry of Magic – Britain_

Livia Malfoy's lips pursed as her grandfather scribbled a short message and tapped the parchment with his wand. It faded from sight silently.

"Grandfather, I do not recommend this. The international community is simply not turning in our favour. Our predictions were wrong. We've gone to war on too many fronts too often. If you provoke France we _will_ stand alone. For all the assurances you have won the German princes will betray us at the drop of a wand," she warned for the umpteenth time, almost shaking with frustration.

"Then we shall prove them to be fools. Britain's forces the greatest in the world. In any case the rest of Europe will be too preoccupied to intervene," Draco assured her, not bothering to raise his head. "You worry too much my dear. Now, what do you think will provoke the greater response: a village near Hogwarts burnt down, or a French family murdered in a race based crime?"

"Grandfather, we need to back down. Things are not going according to plan," she insisted.

"You see if we destroy the village the French will accuse us of trying to frame them, and we get more support … but if we destroy a family it might be enough of a spark to set off the war. They will _demand_ reparations which we will diplomatically refu …"

"Are you even listening to a word I say?" She asked.

"Should I have been? You did not appear to be contributing anything pertinent," he said coolly. "You know my dear, I do believe the pressures of government are getting to you. Maybe we should see about you spending more time with the rest of the family …"

She blanched, "Grandfather, what are you talking about? You _need_ me."

He smiled benevolently at her with eyes as hard as flint. "I need people I can rely upon absolutely my dear," Draco answered. He turned away from her pulling another strip of parchment from a tray. "I am beginning to wonder if you are quite the person for that task …"

"If you imagine I will resign …"

"I imagine nothing. Either remind yourself where your loyalties lie, or you _will_ resign," he snapped. "Leave my office. You have twenty-four hours."

He leant back in his chair as she left the room, looking after her thoughtfully. He sighed and went back to the paperwork, pausing for a moment to press the button for the interfloo. "Simmons, prepare my armour."

* * *

_Stuttgart_

Harry entered the room where Richard, Kitty and Arabella were waiting. They were seated around a dining table, laden with an exotic mixture of foods. "Good afternoon, everyone," he said, pulling out a chair at the head of the table, "how are you today? Is your arm better Kitty? I owe you for intervening there."

"It is fine, thank you, sir," Kitty replied. "Can't really remember the fight, but I'm glad I did my duty."

"Well thank you again. Now, I thought it best to introduce the newest member of our party," Harry gestured to Tom who had taken the seat opposite to his own.

"Mephistopheles Tromedlov," Tom interrupted easily, "at your service."

"Tromedlov?" Richard asked. "A Slavic name perchance?"

"Not quite," Tom smiled thinly. "I am a member of the Service, sent to help after recent events."

"A member of the Service indeed? How … unusual," Richard remarked, bright eyes scanning Tom's features. "Have we met before? I feel I know you …"

"I think not. You must be Richard Thorbecombe," Tom said as he smiled widely, teeth bared, "Mr Potter has told me _all_ about you."

Arabella frowned, staring at Tom intently. She noticed Harry observing her, blushed and looked away. Tom ignored the attention, choosing to fix Richard with a cold stare. The auror did not immediately break eye contact, but as he did Harry saw a fleeting shiver twist his features.

"I am prepared to come with you," Arabella said breaking the chilly silence. "Do we know when we shall be leaving?"

There was the tap of claws on the stone lintel of the window as Cor landed, "Soon, must be soon."

"Ah, you've been listening?" Harry asked as he pulled a bowl of spiced potatoes closer. "Yes we'll leave soon. Two hours or so, if everyone's ready."

The others exchanged glances eventually nodded as they heaped food onto their plates. Arabella turned to Kitty, resuming a discussion, "You can't seriously be suggesting that you're satisfied with a system where you're a second class citizen."

Harry reached for a glass, dodging around Cor as she hopped around the table. He filled the glass with water and sat back noting Tom silently examining the others as he pulled a sliver of red, dripping beef from a platter.

"You're just spouting anti-Ministry propaganda. Things have changed. It's true that the Wizangamot is still a hereditary collective, but it's important to preserve our traditions. Blood is almost entirely irrelevant …" Kitty protested.

Richard coughed politely, turning to face Harry. "I meant to tell you, I think I found something useful in the library yesterday. I gave up on daemons and started looking into areas where you might try and hide in the forest …"

"Really?" Tom asked. "Do tell us what you found after half-an-hour of _intensive_ research."

Richard stiffened but continued, "On the whole the southern Black Forest is lacking in useful hideouts, but there _is_ an old abandoned series of tunnels built by wizards resisting Grindelwald."

"Tunnels? Dark wizards nowadays, no originality, no flair!" Tom bemoaned quietly from the other end of the table.

Harry raised a disbelieving eyebrow at Tom and nodded to Richard for him to continue.

"The network would already have had layers of wards and the runestones could easily have been replaced or renewed. It's isolated and large enough to hide a small army," Richard finished. "In other words perfect for a group of daemon-summoners preying on the weak and travellers."

"That makes sense," Harry said, nodding, "though if it is true it would suggest they have a plan for the future. There was a man who attacked me when we first came here. Come to think of it I might be better off never coming back here with this track record. I think he was probably one of them, he certainly seemed set on a goal of some sort."

"Do you ever share important information?" Tom asked. "Imagine what could have been done with that information if you'd mentioned it sooner."

Harry ignored him and took a bite from a piece of chicken. "What do you think Cor? Would you be able to tell if there's a magical concentration if it's underground?"

The rook fluttered her wings, jiggling slightly as she considered the question, "Depends, doesn't it?"

"What does it depend on?" Harry asked patiently.

"Lots of things," Cor replied, gobbling down a red grape.

"Such as?" Tom asked, tapping a pale grey wand against the table: thirteen inches long and made of elder. The threat was obvious and Cor turned to regard him with beady eyes.

"Depends on how deep the magic is," the bird clarified warily. It flapped its wings and fluttered out of the window.

"I think you make her nervous, T...oph," Harry finished awkwardly, "you don't mind me calling you Toph do you?"

"I do."

"Oh. I'll try not to then."

Arabella stood up scraping her chair over the floor. "Could I have a word Harry?"

"By all means," he said, standing up and following her. She stopped in a corridor in the corridor.

"What is it?" Harry asked.

"Who is he?" She asked bluntly.

"Who?"

"Mephistopheles," she said. "He looks like Tom's older brother! You must have noticed it, you almost called him Tom as it is. I don't think he thought much of the pathetic attempt to turn your mistake into a nickname."

"He's just a member of the Service," Harry protested, "I've never met him before."

"There's something between you. If you want me to trust you then _stop_ lying to me. What is the Service anyway?" She asked.

"Spies. They serve the British Ministry, very hush hush. I never saw his face before yesterday," Harry assured her.

"I don't know if you're telling the truth or not. All your cryptic hints yesterday … are you ever going to pluck up the courage to say what you need to?" She asked wearily.

"Soon. I promise. Let's get the job done first. I promised that this would be done right," Harry said wearily. "Let's just get the job done."

In his tower-cell Mustaphar turned from his window as a knock came at the door. Guards rarely knocked. He waited expectantly. The door opened and a tall, dark-haired man with hawk-like features stepped through, stopping short of the ward line. He was dressed in a simple black robe.

"How do you do?" The hawk-like man asked.

"Quite well. Though my current situation is less than ideal," Mustaphar answered pleasantly, picking at the grime beneath one of his fingernails. "Anything I can do for you?"

The visitor looked around the room, "I cannot complement you on the décor."

"Well that's often a problem with prison cells I find," Mustaphar observed. There was something familiar about the man. "Do you actually have a reason for being here?"

"Don't you recognise me?"

"Your face doesn't spring to mind," Mustaphar admitted, turning back to the window.

" _Look at me_ when I grace you with my presence, sorcerer. Why did you try to kill me? A … an acquaintance asked me the question and it _vexes_ me. There are many who would try and for a great many reasons, but not you, so why?" The visitor almost snarled.

Mustaphar clapped his hands in mocking applause. "Marvellous. I did not expect you to survive. I had thought your spirit would decay without a body. Here you are though, robed in all the glories of the flesh. Would you mind telling me how you did it?"

"An old spell and natural brilliance," Lord Voldemort replied, brushing dust from his sleeve.

"A reasonable answer," Mustaphar chuckled. "I _am_ glad that you're still alive. Don't you find it makes the victory hollow when the other can't remember you've won?"

"No," Voldemort said blandly. "Why though? Why attack me?"

"Why do anything?" Mustaphar asked.

"Power then? Just a test?" Voldemort asked, looking for the truth behind the laughing eyes.

" _Fun_. What's power if you can't play with it?" Mustaphar asked.

Voldemort nodded, "I see. Was that the whole reason?"

Mustaphar sighed, "Let me ask you something: are you a good man?"

"Morally? I find morality an irrelevance," Voldemort answered curling his lip at the idea. He ran a hand over the wards, golden light spiralled from where his fingers brushed against the barrier.

"Denial of moral validity? I've met your kind before …"

"There are none like me," Voldemort murmured, his voice purring.

"They always say that," Mustaphar said, shrugging. "I wasn't asking morally. I was asking if you were … what is the word? Powerful?"

"I am Lord Voldemort. There has only ever been one who is my equal, there will never be another," Voldemort said, his gaunt features tight and closed.

"How do you know it though? _How_ can you be sure?" Mustaphar asked pulling a straw from his mattress and peeling it into strips.

"Ah, I see," Voldemort said as he nodded again. "I think we understand one another, do we not sorcerer?"

"To a degree."

"Then remember this: when you leave this cell, which you and I both know you will, do not pursue me. If you do it will mean your death. There will be no goblins to save you, no wards to protect you," Voldemort warned. "If we meet I will take pleasure in tearing the life from your body."

"Indeed?" Mustaphar's eyes twinkled. "Well that sounds like something to look forward to. Until we meet again Lord Voldemort."

"I very much doubt that we will," Voldemort replied, turning away, hesitating for an instant, as Mustaphar chuckled. "What was your name again?"

"Mustaphar," he said obligingly.

"I will remember that."

"Do. Please do."

* * *

_The Black Forest_

Cor lifted off from her perch on Arabella's shoulder. She dodged through the leaf cover and branches, rising higher. Harry watched her for a moment before the trees obscured her and only the golden string of magic which dangled from her claws could still be seen, drifting through the trees. Their feet crunched through twigs and leaf mould. The air was tinged with the damp, growing scents of spring as leaves unfurled and branches stretched upwards.

Occasionally Richard consulted his maps and compass charm, correcting their direction as they fought through the brushwood. Cor fluttered down through the branches, landing on the old, dead limb of an ancient oak which stood like a strange grim testimony to the passage of time with bleached limbs and patchy bark.

"Not far, not far now," she cawed before lifting off again.

"She's been saying that for the last ten miles," Kitty muttered as she clambered over a rocky outcrop.

"Maybe she's just trying to be encouraging," Arabella suggested with a shrug as she ducked under a branch.

"It might be more encouraging if I felt I could believe it," Kitty groused.

Richard paused holding up his hand. "Point me." The wand spun uselessly until Richard picked up again.

Harry fumbled in his pockets and pulled out a silver compass. Popping open the lid he stared at the needle. It too spun unable to find any hint of North. They looked up, trees nestled close together, blocking out the sky. Cor had moved on, expecting them to follow.

"Wards?" Harry asked Arabella as he drew his wand. Tom's was already held lightly in hand.

She bisected the air with sweeps of her wand, searching for an answer. Her free hand traced tiny runes onto the wall of magic she was building, refining the spell's intent. At last she banished the spell with a flick of her wand and shook her head.

"Nothing, no wards. Probably nothing more than a generalised misdirection hex, probably tied to something around here. If we could destroy it the spell would break, but it'd be like looking for a needle in a haystack," Arabella explained. "Do you know how far we were from the caves before this happened?"

"It's hard to tell without landmarks," Richard said. "No more than an hour, I'd wager."

"Right, we need to bind ourselves together. These hexes split people up …" Arabella said firmly.

Tom whispered something and with a few delicate wand-movements silvery rope wound out of his wand offering itself to each of them in turn. Harry reached out for it reluctantly and tied it around his left wrist, it was light and soft.

"Should we mark our way as we go?" Richard asked.

"No point, the hex would make us oblivious. Look for a clearing. We had better hope Cor finds us or that we leave the hex's range. Birds and animals aren't affected by such magic," Arabella answered, her voice slipping unconsciously into a lecturing tone.

They walked onwards, looking for any sign of the golden thread of magic dangling from Cor's claws. One tree blurred into another. Occasionally Harry caught sight of a patch purpling sky but there was still no sign of Cor.

Their progress slowed to a crawl as forced their way through the undergrowth. At last they paused in a small clearing where a green knoll stood proud from the rest of the wood. Harry threw his coat down and rummaging through it pulled out the rucksack he had first packed when he left his shop weeks ago.

"There's no point carrying on for now," Harry said as he pulled out the tent from within. "It's getting late. For all we know we're wandering miles off course. If we ward the camp properly we should be safe for the night and Cor's likely to see the fire."

The long, black shadows stretched outwards from the trees. Tom glanced around, "Do you really think that's wise? We can hardly put up more than rudimentary defences, and if daemons _are_ here we could be overwhelmed. Particularly if we leave a loophole for that bird."

"It's either that or we can try and find the edge of the spell. Do you want to risk apparating when our sense of direction has gone haywire?" Harry said as he ran his wand over the tent poles, snapping them into position. "Maybe you want to wander through dark woods with daemons in the shadows? Why don't you keep watch while Arabella sets the wards? Richard, Kitty, could you get a fire going? Find or transfigure some rocks to contain it first."

"I know, I know," Richard muttered, bristling.

Somewhere in the depths of the forest something gave a long, thin cry. The wizards and witches froze for a moment and then there was no more argument. Arabella spent a solid hour weaving a net of spells around the camp until she finally collapsed beside the fire. The tent was simple, Harry had used further extension charms to expand it enough for the others and transfigured new, if slightly lumpy beds. Tom modified his own into an ebony four-poster to a few rolled eyes. There was nowhere to put an oven, not that Harry would have been confident enough to transfigure one in any case and so they roasted a brace of rabbits Tom had caught over the fire. The meat was on the charred side, but edible and Harry added a few tins of vegetables to the mix from the pockets of his rucksack.

They took it in turn to keep watch and during Arabella's watch Cor returned to them. She was exhausted and after pecking at the remains of their meal tucked her head under her wing and slept. The night was, apart from her reappearance, quiet. Not even an owl hooted, or a mouse stirred.

Morning saw the grass covered in dew and after a somewhat limited breakfast they dried the tent and packed it away whilst Arabella unwove the magic of the wards. Cor led them through the wood, unaffected by the magic. Cor had spied the entrance to the caves in her flight the previous day and it took barely more than an hour for her to lead them onto a path towards it.

Closer to the caves though the forest changed. Dead trees became more and more common. When Tom ran his hand against the rotting wood of one it almost fell apart, a thick yellow liquid oozing outwards.

"There is a cancer eating away at this forest," Tom murmured, unusually sober.

The entrance to the caves was strangely prosaic in comparison to the decaying, suppurating forest: simple wooden door set into the side of a hill. Richard led the way inside, lighting his wand with a quiet _lumos_.

"Wait, let me go first," Arabella insisted, pushing her way to the front. She began to trace spells in the air as they progressed deeper into the hill, checking for defences. "There is nothing here. There _were_ wards here, but they've been pulled down recently. I don't like it."

"Do you think it's a trap?" Harry asked as he scanned the earthy passage. It was barely three foot wide and slightly less than six foot high.

"Maybe, I can't be sure though …"

Cor shifted uneasily in Harry's shoulder. "Shouldn't be here. Not good place."

The path led deeper and deeper into the hill, bending and winding until at last it forked, one path sloping downwards, the other stretching upwards slowly.

"We should split up," Tom decided, looking at the choice.

"Are you kidding? Tom that'd be suicide," Harry objected.

"Are you a defenceless pup? We will be fine …"

"Tom …" Arabella's pale skin was ghostly in the werelight. "It wasn't a mistake was it?" She turned to stare at Tom's face. "How did you survive? I saw your body …"

Tom sighed, "Madame, I am Lord Voldemort. I do not die." He shrugged at Harry.

She took a step backwards looking to Harry, "You .. you're working with _him_? How could you? How could you stoop so low?"

Harry reached out towards her and she flinched away, "It's for the best. Think about what we're doing here."

"It is for the greater good," Tom added with unhelpful glee.

Arabella slashed her wand towards Tom, " _Diffi_ …"

Harry leapt between them, knocking her wand towards the floor, a plume of dust rising as the pale, purple light struck the ground. "Don't," he pleaded, "as long as you don't he can't attack you …"

"That's why you offered protection. You have a pact with him," she whispered, piecing it together, backing away. "I reject it, you and your protection can rot in hell."

Tom flicked out his wand, " _Crucio._ " Red light flicking out to strike her and she screamed, falling to her knees. "Do not presume to lecture your betters, child."

Harry drew his wand and a shield of earth and stones rose, blocking the curse. "Stop! _Now_!"

Tom glared at him, but did not try to recast the spell. When Harry chanced a look around Arabella was staggering up the passageway, bent double. "Let her go, Boy," Tom said, "she won't listen to you. This is the price you pay."

Harry closed his eyes, "I failed again, didn't I?"

"I couldn't really say," Tom drawled.

"You did your best to protect her. You're trying to help others," Richard reassured him softly. Harry glanced at him, surprised by the uncharacteristic compassion.

"Why did you let her live?" Harry asked Tom as the light of her wand vanished. Cor nestled against the side of his head, feathers tickling his ear.

"She gave us aid. I pay my debts … and she will tell my legend," Tom added as he turned back to the forked pathway. _And_ , Harry added silently, _now she will remember my betrayal forever. Well done Tom, well done._

"I thought you weren't dead when I saw your new body. It's good to have it confirmed," Richard remarked, taking the apparent reincarnation in his stride. "I hadn't believed the stories if I'm honest."

"Come on, let's go," Harry murmured hollowly. "Kitty and Cor, with me."

Harry led the way down into the hill, a silver werelight bobbing ahead of them. The tunnel was narrow and the walls pressed inwards like a coffin. Harry wondered vaguely if the spells which had held the walls up had frayed over time and if their footsteps would be enough to bring it down upon them. Cor was if anything worse off: without the room to even take off she huddled close to Harry for protection. Kitty was silent, simply plodding along behind them.

Ten minutes later the passage widened out and finally Harry was able to straighten up. The room, or cave was unremarkable, perhaps twelve feet high and roughly circular. Giant boulders formed the walls, leaving a circle of golden sand thirty feet across in the centre. In the roof tiny chips of quartz glinted in the werelight.

Harry hesitated. The sudden open space made him almost as nervous as the narrow corridor had done. "I don't like this, it looks like a killing ground. If they have sentries here …"

"And if we stop and let them get reinforcements? Or they encircle us while we're in here? How many killing curses can you dodge in this tunnel?" Kitty asked, turning quickly to check behind them.

Harry hesitated for a moment longer and then advanced into the cave. He was a third of the way across when spellfire burst from the walls. Cor took wing, screeching. Two red bolts shot by Harry's left and right while a third barely missed his back. He twisted and ducked an invisible wave of force which raised his hair as another two red bolts whizzed by and a third splashed harmlessly on his coat. He moved instinctively as the spellfire lit up the room in bursts of colour. His wand flicked upwards, deflecting a disarming charm Kitty had aimed at his back into the ceiling. He rolled to one side. A banishing charm clipped him, sending him tumbling across the floor, milliseconds before another red bolt smashed into the ground where he had been crouching. Cor dodged a spell from Kitty and swooped out into the passage.

" _Reducto_! Cor, tell Arabella!" His spell bounced harmlessly off a wall as he rolled again, keeping up his momentum as a second volley began to rain down. Most of the spells were stunners and disarming charms, as effectual against his coat as light rain. "Why Kitty?" He asked, snapping up a shield charm, blocking another curse.

"Orders sir. _Stupefy_!"

Harry twirled, letting his coat take the blast again. " _Aguamenti_." A high pressured blast of water zipped across the room slicing into the rock like a knife into butter, carving through it. He swung his wand across in an arc and Kitty ducked underneath, suddenly on the defensive.

" _Congele_!" The blast of water froze, cracking under its own weight as Kitty's spell struck it. Harry swept his wand around again: the icy fragments rose some blocked another wave of stunners as others shot towards Kitty. Needle sharp points sliced through the air. She held her wand forwards, heat blossoming, turning the ice to water. Droplets bounced harmlessly off her.

A flick of Harry's wand and the droplets of water were vaporised. A swirling green cloud outwards. Kitty half leapt, half stumbled backwards, mimicking Harry and surrounding herself with a full body version of the bubblehead charm. He grimaced, dispelling the gas as a waste of energy and loosed a fire charm. White flames melted the sand, turning it to blackened glass.

Kitty fell back to a stunner, trying to distract him and Harry knocked the crimson beam back towards her, raising his wand above his head as another wave of spells erupted from the surrounding walls. " _Protego prismata._ " A green, ribbed, dome of light spiralled down from his wand, sheltering him.

Kitty smiled, stepping back out of the cavern. "You made a mistake sir."

"Really? Do tell," Harry grunted as his shield wavered under the continued assault.

"That shield's tough, but it traps you, and the defences are active …" The sand sucked at him, drawing him downwards. His shield broke. A stunner hit his unprotected chest.

"Take him. Raise the wards," Kitty ordered.

Voldemort continued walking as Richard and he came to a long, rectangular hallway made from neat sandstone blocks, each longer and wider than a man. A dark doorway marked each of the walls. Half way along the hall he spun on his heel flicking aside the stunner the auror had aimed at his back.

"Did you really think it would be that easy? Thorbecombe?" He asked softly, grey eyes taking in his surroundings. He twitched his wand to the side, countering a curse from a sniper before it could form. "You need to learn to shield your mind fully. I could hear your thoughts before I even set foot in this room."

Richard slashed his wand savagely through the air. A thin purple tongue of fire lashed out, Voldemort simply stepped aside.

"Silence? Is that all the answer I get? That isn't very sporting you know," Voldemort remarked, batting aside another spell from a hidden assailant as he twisted out of the path of a stunner.

" _Aqua antrorsum_ ," Richard said moving backwards and forwards, prepared for a counter attack. Bars of pressured water began to coalesce into existence around Voldemort cutting into the rock, running from floor to ceiling, closing in on him, as, simultaneously the snipers launched stunners together, red bolts cutting the air. Voldemort moved with preternatural speed, a wave of fire turning the water to steam as he leant backwards, scalded, but otherwise unharmed.

He drew his wand in a tight circle. The steam gathered together flowing towards Richard. Richard raised his hand and a wind howled through the chamber, dissipating the steam as Voldemort danced between spells.

"Is this it? Is this all you can throw at me Thorbecombe? I had hoped for better when the betrayal came," Voldemort sneered. He ripped the floor upwards with a sweep of his wand, deflecting a stunner as he advanced towards the auror. Richard rolled underneath a _cruciatus_.

" _Impedimenta_! _Petrificus totalus_! _Expelliamus_! _Stupefy_!" The spells flew from Richard's wand, each casually batted away as Voldemort advanced.

"Did you really think you could take me on? I am the oldest wizard alive, I know every spell, every cantrip you can cast. Perhaps you afraid to try any real magic? Let me show you how it works: _a_ _rdente_!" Flames leapt from Voldemort's wand, crackling as they ran around the edge of the room, blocking the line of sight of the snipers. "Now, it is just you and me … C _rucio_!" Richard writhed under the spell, biting back cries of agony. Voldemort released it, sighing in pleasure as he watched the man slump momentarily.

Richard rolled again, raising his wand. " _Incarcerous_!" Iron bands flew towards Voldemort.

" _Relashio_!" There was a wave of force as the air rippled and Richard barely hurled himself out of the way as the metal was ripped apart, sending chunks of masonry flying. " _Tela_!" A flurry of darts whizzed from Voldemort's wand, burying themselves in the floor as Richard rolling desperately sideways barely missed the flames. "Are you having fun, auror? Are you?" Voldemort asked, advancing on his prey.

"Hold!" The cry came from beyond the flames and Voldemort paused, allowing the fire to part so that he could see beyond. Kitty stood at the doorway, flanked by wizards with drawn wands. Harry's limp, unconscious form floated beside her, her wand aimed at his throat. "Drop your wand your lordship. Drop it or he dies."

Voldemort sneered, but the flames fell away. "What assurances do I have you will not kill us?"

"None, but fail to comply and you _will_ both die," Kitty promised.

He toyed with the idea of trying to kill them, he might have managed it. However, they had not resorted to lethal spells, even Richard's attacks had fallen just short: they had been trying to take him alive. There was a chance that this was not the end. He threw his wand to the floor, letting it roll over the flagstones. He smiled and one of the men beside Kitty flinched, it was not often that he had an opportunity such as this one.

"Very well. Take me to your leader."


	21. Lighting the Flame

**Lighting the Flame**

They marched Voldemort down the hall. Four guards marched in front and four behind. Kitty and Richard led the way as Harry was taken away. Richard stowed Voldemort's and Harry's wands in his pocket and draped Harry's coat over one arm. There were crevices set along the wall which emitted a green light which danced in the quartz running along the curved roof.

"Is it far? Only the scenery is a little boring," Voldemort asked. His hands had been bound tight behind his back. He shifted his arms marginally trying to imitate what Harry might do in a similar situation. He hated to admit it but the boy was better at this sort of thing.

No-one answered him. Instead they tramped along in silence, winding deeper and deeper into the belly of the hill. This place was a fortress, rather than simply a set of tunnels. Someone was presumably funding the group, Voldemort could take an educated guess given their deference to Richard and Kitty: _Malfoy_.

An endless series of spiralling stairwells, winding passages and long, chilly halls later they came to a pair of oaken. The doors swung open with a silent majesty at a wave of Richard's wand. They marched into a hall greater than the others, lined with rugged pillars. At the far end steps rose to a seat of freshly cut stone. Sheets of black glass covered the walls. Quartz ran along the floor, criss-crossing the black floor in the design of a spreading, leafless tree.

A man with tousled brown hair and a short beard lounged upon the throne-like seat. The guards fanned out around them. Voldemort waited, relaxing into the moment. He eyed the man in the chair, noting the dark bruises on his wrists and blackened veins, just visible beneath the sleeves of his robe.

"This is all tad gauche isn't it?" Voldemort suggested.

"Really?" The man in the chair asked lazily, "I designed it as an homage to _your_ throne room. Isn't that poetic?"

"Should it be?"

"I practically worshipped you as a child. A man with a vision. An attempt to make sure the _right_ people were in charge, still you _failed_ ," the man grinned delightedly. "Yet I can do it!" He stood and walked towards Voldemort, his eyes glistening.

Richard stepped in between them, "I wouldn't get too close, sir. He's not your average man."

"Precisely! He's more," the brown haired man said, smiling broadly. "And I want to give him a chance. Join me, my prince, you can do everything you ever dreamed of … just help me."

Voldemort suppressed a shudder at the man's enthusiasm. "How kind. I fear though that we have not been introduced. I can hardly help a man with whom I am not acquainted now can I?"

"Well then, I am Ambrose Fairechild. I doubt you've heard of me," he said with a hint of self-deprecation. "Yet, I am the man who will unite Europe. With the screaming souls of the muggle filth I will create an army with which to purify the world!"

Voldemort blinked. "I hate to ask: don't you consider the fact that you are completely insane a handicap?"

Ambrose ignored him, apparently lost in rapture. Richard rolled his eyes as they waited for him to regain his train of thought. Voldemort raised an eyebrow at the auror captain, who merely gave the slightest shrug of his shoulders.

Ambrose took a deep breath, "I am sorry. My passions run away with me a little for the moment." He glanced down with embarrassment at the dark, purple veins on his wrists and hands. "The rituals I have been using have a few side effects. If you have time I'd love to talk to you about them, they are only temporary, but your opinion would be _invaluable_."

Voldemort gave him a long, long look. "Child, this plan will fail. Malfoy is not your ally, he is your puppeteer."

Ambrose twitched and he turned on his heel, walking back up the hall. "Have you no faith, my lord? A belief in a god or two?"

"Polytheism has always appeared to me to have the flaw that it requires belief in too many gods; though monotheism suffers from the same condition," Voldemort said blandly.

"Faith in yourself then? You must have that," Ambrose urged as he sat back down in his throne.

"Of course."

"Then have faith in _me_ too. I can bring your dreams to fruition ..."

"No."

"Why not? Surely you don't believe that this is wrong? I've heard assertions this is evil from weak minded fools, I hoped for better from you," Ambrose cajoled. Disappointment flitted over his features.

Voldemort almost laughed. "Evil? Evil is simply the name given to an act committed without guilt. It is only a concept of use when dealing with the sheep. No, it's simply because you are stark, raving mad. Also, I don't follow, I lead."

Ambrose shook his head slowly. "We could have done great things my lord, great things. Why do you wound me so?" He sighed wistfully. "I _hate_ it when people disappoint me."

"The feeling of mutual. I always hoped a great man would take up my legacy. _Not_ a mewling idiot," Voldemort straightened, for a man with his hand tied behind his back there was a certain regality to him.

"Richard take him away, dispose of him till tomorrow night. You're going to help me one way or another, though sadly you won't see your work completed," Ambrose murmured mournfully.

Richard nodded brusquely. "You four, with me. Katherine, bring Herr Fairechilde up to speed." He paused for a moment, before turning back to Ambrose, "For the future, sir, may I suggest that you endeavour to avoid giving away information to our enemies?" He passed Voldemort's and Harry's belongings to Kitty before turning to the doors.

"What's he going to do? Tell a wall?" Ambrose chortled. "I could tell him everything and it still wouldn't save them. The first blow will be enough Richard."

Richard threw a single withering glance over his shoulder, which Ambrose either ignored or simply failed to notice. With a snap of the auror's fingers the guards formed up around Voldemort.

"When this goes wrong, when you die screaming, remember this conversation," Voldemort said as he was led away. The words hung in the air.

The doors swung shut behind him and they marched into the labyrinth. Voldemort was silent, concentrating in maintaining grace and poise. The guards were keeping their distance. He considered making a break for it, but dismissed it. With his hands bound it would probably only result in humiliation. Voldemort shuddered slightly, he was considering _heroics._ There was nothing wrong with the concept of a hero, but pointless shows of bravado had never appealed to him. The chances of successfully possessing a body were low too: in an environment where contact with daemons was routine, if the Erlking was right, it would be pure madness to leave oneself unprotected from possession.

"Why didn't you at the very least pretend to be on our side, sir?" Richard asked as they marched down a passageway where the air stung their cheeks with icy cold. Frost covered runes glittered and sparkled.

"It would have made breaking out and killing all of you far less entertaining. Anyway I do not imagine that you would have allowed him to commit such folly," Voldemort said. He kept his voice low and his eyes fixed ahead.

"Herr Fairechild is perfectly capable of making any necessary decisions. I am merely here to provide advice and assistance," Richard said. Voldemort could not see his face, but he could picture the small discreet smile on the man's lips.

"Of course. Do tell me though, was it always the plan to hand us over here? Or did Malfoy just want us removed whenever it was most convenient."

"This was always the plan. For all your skills, my lord, you really are quite predictable. One might argue it is your skill which makes you predictable. You have grown stale my lord, your exile has done you no good," Richard said, almost sympathetically. 'This though is the end. This fortress is a cage as much as it is a fastness. It needs to be to hold daemons. When I tell you that escape is impossible I'm sure you see why."

"You are playing with fire. When you summon daemons there are consequences …" Voldemort warned softly.

"There are always consequences, sir. That's life," Richard replied, increasing the pace. They passed corridors through which they glimpsed rooms of mist and shadow, stairs of ice and windows of night against which formless things brushed. Voldemort was lost within the whirling mix of rooms, flights of stairs and hallways till they came to a sturdy iron door. It swung open at the touch of Richard's wand and they passed through. A line of barred cells ran along the wall. Harry lay unconscious in one and they ushered Voldemort into the next. Richard paused for a moment as the others left. "I'll be back in an hour or two to see you are properly fed. Until then my lord, adieu."

* * *

It took almost fifteen minutes of continuous shouting to raise Harry. Tom was privately unsure as to whether the boy had decided to stay quiet to simply infuriate him further or not. The bonds around his hands were not improving his mood.

"What is it Tom?" Harry asked testily as he checked the pockets of his trousers. The results, a length of string, a conker and a single galleon, were not promising. His side felt empty without at least a wand strapped to it.

"At last Briar Rose awakens, and not a hundred years too soon," Tom groused. "Incidentally, I told you so."

"Why is it that the first thing I notice is that you've gotten me into another fine mess, _again_ ," Harry complained as he began to search his cell for weaknesses.

"I got _you_ into? I beg your pardon!" Tom asked incredulously.

"'Let's split up' you said, 'what a good idea that'll be you said. Honestly Tom, have you never watched a horror movie? I bet they're planning to sacrifice us to daemons right now," Harry said, kicking a bar which proved to be unsurprisingly solid. He winced, hopping from one foot to the other.

"Of course I have never watched a 'movie'," Tom protested before coughing awkwardly, "and as to the daemon sacrificing issue … that's unpleasantly probable"

Harry rolled his eyes before realising Tom could not see. "For your information I'm rolling my eyes."

"Hmm. Well let me just remind you which of us was knocked out by a bunch of third rate, clichéd cultists," Tom pointed out with quiet indignation.

"That is in no way my fault. You gave me a phobia of cultists when I was young. How am I supposed to react reasonably around them?" Harry asked.

Tom hesitated, "You are joking are you not?"

"Yes Tom, of course I am," Harry sighed. "Your cultists were much too pathetic to give anyone a phobia. These ones ambushed me, they had the numbers, surprise and wards backing them up. How come you weren't stunned?"

"Superior skill of course," Tom declared grandly, before admitting, "I suspect the wards that way were intended to be lethal, they could not use everything at their disposal without destroying their ultimate plan."

Harry glanced around the cell, "Wandless magic any use?"

"None whatsoever. If it were my hands would be free!" Tom snapped. "Richard will be back in a couple of hours."

"Ah."

They lapsed into silence, considering their position. It took about ten minutes for Harry to break the silence, "Shall we play a game while we wait for something to happen?"

Tom considered the suggestion, "Very well, what do you have in mind?"

"I spy?"

"Does anyone like that game?"

"Three year olds," Harry suggested. Tom did not deign to reply. "Geography Endings then?"

"What's that?" Tom asked, although he could guess the answer.

"Well you say the name of a place, France, for instance, and then the next person has to pick a country ending with the last letter of that word, be it a town, village, river, sea, ocean, city, country, region, continent …"

"Yes, yes, I get the idea," Tom snapped. "Do you want to start then?"

"Diagon Alley."

"York."

"'Kamchatka."

"Tom paused, " _Where_?"

"It's sort of the easternmost tip of Russia, I think," Harry said, "I saw it on a Risk map when I was little ..."

"Does it still exist?" Tom asked dubiously.

"Probably."

"Fine … Atlantis. Do you want help preparing your lines? You'll be much more impressive if you have my help."

Tom had finally finished freeing his hands and was contemplating the existence of further place names beginning with "e" when Richard opened the door to their room and walked in. A tray of food floated smoothly behind him. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said and set the food down on a sturdy wooden table on his side of the bars. Tom leaned against the wall. Harry on the other side of the partition sat cross legged was arranging dust into patterns on the floor.

"Good afternoon," Tom drawled as Richard sat down.

"I hope you're both enjoying your accommodations," Richard said.

"They leave something to be desired. Is there anything we can do for you? Eviscerate you, perhaps?" Tom asked in a pleasant tone.

"I'm quite well thank you," Richard said and paused for a moment, "No hard feelings about this? It wasn't personal."

Tom blinked at him. Harry continued to doodle in the dust.

"I must admit to a certain pity for your plight, being betrayed without any obvious good reason must be galling. I hope it will comfort you that your country will benefit from your sacrifice," Richard said, kindly.

"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori," Harry muttered, "it's still your turn Tom."

"Ettersburg. Thorbecombe, my dear chap, if you think I give a hoot for my country you're madder than that man upstairs. It would warm my heart to think that everyone there will die, painfully, soon," Tom explained as if to a child.

There was a short silence; Richard's face set into a blank mask. "Then your removal is for the best." He flicked his wand and the food slipped through the bars of the cells.

"Gloucester." Harry turned to look at Richard. He stood slowly, straightening up. "I have a question for you: did you think we didn't know you were going to betray us?"

"If you weren't suspicious you'd never have lived this long," Richard replied.

"Really Mr _Weasley_ thought further ahead than you," Harry said. " _Alastor_ would be ashamed that standards have slipped so far. Hell, _Lupin_ taught third years to be better than that!"

"What are you babbling about?" Richard asked as he narrowed his eyes.

"It really didn't occur to you? You see Sirius _Black ..._ " Richard's wand was wrenched from his hand. It zipped through the bars of Harry's cell and into his waiting hand. "Sirius Black would have known that we'd have prepared for this moment. Forgive me the theatrics but I had your wand for _hours_. Didn't you think I'd have had an insurance policy? A pre-set spell can be activated at any time," Harry tapped the wand on the door to the cell and it swung open. Richard jumped to the side barely dodging the blue light of the petrifying curse shot past him. Harry opened Tom's cell with a flick of the wand.

"You can't win. Not against us," Tom said pleasantly as he strolled out of his cell. "Now, tell us where our possessions are?"

Richard shook his head, backing away down the room. "Guards! Guards!" His voice echoed around the room. "You won't escape. This place is a labyrinth."

"Et cetera, et cetera. You wouldn't _believe_ how often I've heard people say that," Harry remarked raising the wand. " _Imperio_!" The wand resisted and the curse came out weak. Richard did not bother to step aside, his shoulders only drooped for an instant before he shook the spell off.

Harry raised the wand again, "I'm sorry. I didn't want to do this the hard way …"

The door swung open and Richard threw himself through it. Harry changed the movement of the wand mid-flick and locked the door in place. Boots scuffled as the guards readied themselves. Tom grinned savagely at Harry.

Richard was halfway down the second corridor when the screaming began. All in all it did not last long and he did his best to ignore it. He hurried onwards to alert the rest of the daemon summoners and arm himself properly. He flicked open a small hand-held mirror and barked out orders to Kitty as he clambered up a set of stairs.

Harry stepped over the last of the guards as Tom picked out the wand he liked best. Harry tucked Richard's wand into his belt as a spare and selected his own preferred choice: about ten inches long, unyielding and made from a silvery wood which might have been ash or birch.

"Pathetic workmanship," Tom muttered, "most of these would burn out in the hands of any decent wizard."

"You'd have to do something monumentally stupid to burn out a wand Tom," Harry said, closing the eyes of a guard. "You just don't like the ones with unicorn hairs. I think this one's dragon heartstring from the feel of it if you want to try."

Tom gave it a wave. The wood split, blistering as the magic pulsed through it. "I don't think the wood likes me, you were right though. Dragon heartstring."

Harry gave a small grimace. "You did that on purpose. You shouldn't have killed them all. One of them might have given useful information," Harry observed, trying to look at the carnage objectively.

"I think not. They were barely more than automatons. That one never even managed to give a spell," Tom said dismissively, pointing at the corpse of a young man with soft, brown hair.

"That's probably because you tore his throat out. How did you even do that? It shouldn't be physically possible," Harry said, looking away from the bloody hole in the man's neck.

Tom wiggled his fingers delightedly. "There are advantages to a body made rather than born. You can … edit the specifics."

"Did the addition of your wand make a difference?" Harry asked as they left the bodies behind.

"Not yet," Tom admitted. "I was hoping for still greater control of wandless magic. While my skills are as prodigious as always there has been no change as yet."

"Mmm. Which way do you think we should go?" They had reached a fork. One path sloped upwards to their left; the other sloped down.

"Up. We must come out eventually. Though I would like to find our wands …" Tom murmured.

"I'd like to get my invisibility cloak. Not everything is possible though," Harry pointed out.

Somewhere from deep in the complex a network of a bell tolled. Shadows twisted and shifted with the sound. The air trembled like a crystal chalice struck by a tuning fork. Harry was the first to speak, his voice a hushed whisper, "What was that?"

Tom's voice was hoarse, "At a guess an audio-sensitive ward matrix in operation and they just changed the setting."

"What for though?"

"To ensure Richard's wand will not bypass security? To unlock some doors and open others? I do not know. I do not intend to find out," Tom said, marching faster.

Shadows began to seep up the walls like ink on blotting paper turning the stone from red to black. The stone began to ripple, bulging here and there, trying to push outwards. Tom's eyes flicked from side to side. Harry followed his gaze and broke into a run as the shadows began to blot out the light. They tried to keep going upwards but shadows bulged from walls and floor driving them hither and thither.

They stopped, panting, at the top of a flight of steps steep enough that each had been a small leap.

"Do you think we've lost …" Harry paused, searching for a word to describe the shadows, "them?"

Tom shook his head. "I doubt it. Do you know anything which might slow … them down?"

"Fire, light? I'd bet cold iron would help, but I don't really think that's just lying around here."

"There has to be something! Doors, ward seals. They wouldn't allow that … those free reign," Tom insisted with a frustrated snarl.

The light around them began to dim. Like a tide of black water the shadows were creeping up the stairs, lapping over the stones. The temperature sank, mist rising from the stones, traceries of ice formed over them. Harry and Tom set off again, with alien wands their odds of success were low.

It took another ten minutes of running before they came to a solid, iron door. It was a formidable, square block of slate-grey metal, seven feet in height and studded with heavy rivets. The air around it was cool as if the heat had been sucked away.

"Warded," Tom concluded, spitting the word. He looked back down the passageway. The light was dimming, turning the walls a bloody crimson. There were no passageways or turning points. "Boy, I'm going to try and open this, hold them back."

"Let me try Richard's wand first," Harry suggested. He ran it over the iron. For a moment sparks fizzed at the contact, then they died away to nothing. "Make it quick," Harry said turning back to face the corridor.

Tom began to cast, caressing the magic into action. Lights shifted and swirled over the door. Harry walked down the passage running Richard's wand over the stone about ten feet away from the door muttering. The line began to shine. He drew three runes, one at each end and another in the centre. The magic leapt upwards in golden shield which cast rainbows onto the walls before it shifted hue into a fiery red. Harry worked on the next layer: an orange swirl of fire hung in the air, spinning like a Catherine wheel, sparks striking the walls. Yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. Lines and shields burst into life as he retreated leaving only a three foot gap between the door and the final defences.

Tom's brow furrowed as he tried to tease the net of spells over the door apart, fraying the strings of magic until they snapped. Whoever had made the door had done their spellwork well, when he forced the magic to breaking point the net refused to weaken. So far he estimated two thousand, one hundred and eighty seven strings formed the net. He had broken twelve of them. It was going to take time. He chanced a glance over his shoulder. The boy had created a seven part defence, but beyond the shimmering colours the corridor was pitch black. A whispering hiss of sound was coming from the shadows and the hairs on the nape of his neck stood on end.

Shadows gathered against the red shield. They did not charge or ram the shield. Instead they piled themselves on top of one another until any hint of light from the corridor beyond had been eradicated. Harry felt the drain on the ward suddenly as the shadows devoured it. The light flickered, waned and died, a lamp with its batteries left on for too long.

Tom picked apart another strand. Holding the parts in his mind he cauterised the wound. Another strand snapped apart. He kept his eyes shut, ignoring the world around him. His wand hand was moving on autopilot as he worked. He was, he decided, getting faster, though a little voice pointed out that faster was not fast enough.

The shadow surged forwards, crashing against the spiral of orange fire. Sparks flew and there was the smell of flint on flint. Harry was certain now, there was a malevolent intelligence behind the shadow. The red line had been defensive, designed to resist a forceful attack, the orange was aggressive, pushing back with calculated force. The shadows had met each accordingly.

"Any progress?" He asked as the orange flames winked out in a final furious blaze.

Tom opened his eyes coming back to the real world. "A little. The door is drawing in too much energy for me to crack it open safely. How are you doing?"

"It could be better," Harry admitted as the shadows began to corrode the yellow bands which criss-crossed the passage, biting into them like acid.

"Make it better!" Tom ordered shutting his eyes again.

"I. Am. Trying. I need age old defences, not split second shields!" Harry snarled. He twisted his wand in an attempt to fortify the yellow bands. For a moment their flow brightened and they expanded forcing the darkness back. Steam curled from where light and dark collided. "Can we drain the door into the wards?"

Tom considered the possibility, the pros and cons flickered before him as he tugged another strand of magic loose. "Possibly. I'll need you to open a gateway in the shields. We'd better get to the side, if this goes wrong ..." He didn't bother explaining, both of them were all too aware of the dangers posed by wild magic.

Harry cast about for a way to open a channel between the door and the final shield. With a flash of inspiration he knelt laying the wands they had taken from the guards end on end, they almost stretched the distance. With a muttered curse he cast a weak cutting charm at the back of his left hand. As blood welled up he dripped it over the wands and stone linking them together. He pressed the final wand against the shimmering purple field and slowly weakened it leaving it barely more than a tremble in the air.

Meanwhile Tom tied the strings of magic to the line Harry had created. He gently urged the magic to siphon from the door to the wards, prodding the flow every now and then to limit it. The trembling light steadied and then grew, pressing outwards, filling the corridor. The sibilant hissing began to retreat. For a moment it looked hopeful, then the yellow bands burnt out, overloaded. There was a shudder and crimson smoke erupted from the yellow bands of light before, with a roar like the wind, they vanished. The wands and blood glowed with brilliant golden-white light forcing Harry and Tom into the corner.

"Open the door!" Tom roared, barely audible over the fiery wind.

Harry pushed the slate grey slab of metal with both hands, and then threw his shoulder against it. "It's locked, or stuck. I can't move it."

The light was pulsing now, stronger and stronger. The shadows had shrunk back, leaving the corridor empty. However, the power was too much for the flimsy wards which shook and strained against their bonds.

"You're a wizard! Open it!" Tom shouted as he strove to contain the overflowing power.

"Are the door's defences down yet?"

"Maybe! They should be weak enough to rip through anyway ..." Tom was cut off as Harry pushed the door again it swung open, faster than Harry had expected, leaving him sprawling on the floor beyond.

Tom hurled himself through the doorway letting it slam shut behind them as he released the containment charms. Dust drifted from the ceiling as a dull boom shook the corridor beyond the door. They were lying at the foot of a set of stairs. There was the clatter of boots in the corridor above them and then at the head of the stairs Arabella appeared, juddering to a sudden halt, wand in hand, Cor sat on her shoulder.

Harry blinked up at her surprised. Tom spoke, "You are late."

Arabella ignored him. Harry picked himself up, dusted himself down and he looked up at her, "You came back. Why?"

"Because I am not, and never will be, like you," Arabella said blankly. She hurried down the steps and twisted her wand in a tight circle, sealing the door. "Now, come on. I slipped past the wards, but I don't doubt they'll notice before long. Would I be right in guessing they succeeded in capturing you?" She asked looking them up and down.

"We made separate strategic decisions in order to gain a more comprehensive understanding of their organisation," Tom said, taking a few steps up the stairs and scanning the way carefully. "You haven't met any daemons have you?"

"How would I know, given the company I keep?" Arabella asked tersely,

"You would know. They are … unmistakable, provided they're not hiding," Tom clarified. "Which way is the way out? And how _did_ you did us?"

"I asked Cor to lead me to the biggest magical disturbance he could sense. I hoped it would be you. As to the way out …"

Cor leapt from her shoulder and soared gracefully up the stairway, landing neatly on the outstretched arm of a brazier. "This way, this way," she croaked, clawed feet fidgeting on the dark metal.

There was a long screech as something moved against the other side of the iron door behind them. Harry flinched, covering his ears. Tom cast a glance at the door and set off after Cor.

They heard the distant pounding of feet from a side passage as they rounded another corner. For moment they hesitated and then Tom pushed Harry onwards.

"Go. I will finish this. Leave a trail for me to follow. You will not want to be a part of this," Tom ordered, taking up position in the centre of the corridor. He scanned it for possibilities as the feet drew nearer. He corrected his grasp upon his wand slightly, holding it almost casually. He looked for all the world as calm as if he were about to attend a private soirée.

Harry hesitated for a moment before Arabella pulled him onwards. They ran, following Cor's lead, scorching marks on the wall as they went. Seconds ticked by, Tom pirouetted, testing the floor's texture. He slashed his wand through the air and then stepped back around the corner, disappearing from sight. The odds were in his favour. It was not long until the first guard's head came around the bend. A piercing curse caught the man just above the temple. He collapsed like a marionette whose strings were cut. His limbs twitched in a final spasm.

The second guard, a woman of perhaps sixty years with neatly coiffed grey hair pulled herself to a halt, barely dodged the collapsing corpse. A sweep of Tom's wand and a thousand splinters of stone tore themselves free from the walls. She raised a passable protego charm and the slivers of rock burst into a shower of dust. The other guards, led by Kitty, were beside her now. She reinforced her shield with further charms.

Tom flicked his wand upwards and the dust rose in a screen between them. He aimed randomly into the haze and let loose a wide killing curse. It cut through the dust like lightning through a storm cloud tingeing the swirling particles a vicious emerald for an instant. There was a thump as a body hit the ground. Tom smiled in satisfaction. In this case being one against many was an advantage. Life might be dull, but in battle he soared. _This_ was to be alive.

"I chose the field this time. I hope you like it," he called out mockingly. He let his wand fall to his side, waiting for them to return fire. He took a step to the side.

"You've made a mistake, sir. You should have run," Kitty replied from somewhere in the haze. A brilliant blaze of spells, red, white and orange erupted from the dust cloud. Tom barely moved as he slipped between them. He aimed high, guessing the angle required and flicked out a ricocheting flesh-melter. It cracked against a shield, the force of the spells interacting sending a mini-shock wave down the corridor.

"You should have killed me when you had the chance ..." he remarked. Then, unable to resist he ruined the statement's menace with a delighted, "I have always longed to say that. How delightful to be given the opportunity." A flick of his wand and the stone rippled. Serpents of rock slithered towards the guards. Two stunners shot out of the dust cloud towards him. With a bored sigh he conjured a shield and the spells died away harmlessly. Idly running through shield-breaking curses he disillusioned himself, fading from view, and began to pad soundlessly up the passageway. He let the dust storm stop, dropping the particles to the ground. There were four guards left and Kitty. Two hid at the edge of the corner, two with shields raised crouched in the passageway and behind them, wand trained on the hallway waited Kitty who was carefully picking off the snakes.

He crept forward waiting for the perfect moment. He could see the fear in their eyes. Their companions' bodies lay crumpled behind them.

"Where is he? Where's he gone?" One asked in German, a thick Bavarian accent layering his words.

There was no reply. Then Kitty's eyes flicked down taking in the shifting dust under Tom's feet. He winced realising the mistake as a rolling wave of fire blasted forth, filling the passage. Tom held his wand firmly forwards, a shimmering blue shield pulsed from its tip: deflecting the flames. The blast lasted a full minute before Kitty sagged and let the spell fall.

Tom could feel his muscles trembling, the unfriendly wand hummed in his hand, but he could not afford to pause. Closing the last few metres he pressed his wand to the shield and channelled a pulse of electricity directly into the magic. The shield flared, the guard's wand burst into flames and his skin blackened and charred as he was burnt inside-out. Then the shield fell.

The body slumped sideways and the second guard's concentration and shield broke. Tom's cutting curse opened her throat. Another flick and boiling blood flew towards Kitty. She ducked out of its path, throwing a wide blasting curse in Tom's direction. He sidestepped and the next guard never a chance to dodge the thin line of white fire which leapt from his wand tip.

Kitty threw a reducto at him and he caught the spell upon a hasty shield. The blow threw him against the wall. He grunted. His concentration broke and his disillusionment charm dissolved. With a grimace he struck out, the wand tip connected with the last guard's neck and the man dropped his wand before freezing in place. Tom kicked the wand away and locked his gaze with Kitty's.

"Just the two of us then. Now you are going to help me …" he began, twirling his wand lazily.

" _Stupefy_! _Impedimenta_! _Diffindo_!" Kitty snapped, the wand movements merging together.

" _Protego_ ," Tom replied calmly, batting the spells aside. " _Crucio_."

Kitty dodged. She stumbled over a corpse and the spell crackled over the stones above her head. She threw out an arm to stop her fall and Tom moved. He lashed out with his leg kicking her wand arm aside. She reached out for a weapon but his wand stopped her.

"That's better. It was very rude of you to interrupt. Now to begin with … _petrificus totalus._ "

She froze in place and he stepped back levitating her and sticking her to the wall with a few practised wand movements. Only her eyes betrayed the traces of fear.

"I want to know where my wand and the boy's possessions are. You _will_ take me there. Now I am going to demonstrate why you are going to do this and remember this: do not lie to me. Lord Voldemort always knows." Tom raised the last living guard to his feet, half cradling the man's head. He ran the tip of his wand over the guard's cheek, keeping Kitty's gaze fixed on the spectacle as the flesh blistered before beginning to rot, revealing the white teeth beneath as the man's cheek fell away. Tom began to hum.

Tom sighed with delight as he picked up his wand and felt a thrum of recognition run through the wood. The room was barely more than a cupboard illuminated by the light of his 'borrowed' wand. Throwing Harry's coat over his arm, with the holly and phoenix feather wand tucked into the pocket, he turned to Kitty's floating body. He let the spell fail and she crumpled onto the floor. Her limbs trembled from the after-effects of the _cruciatus_. She had been surprisingly difficult to persuade.

"You won't win," she whispered softly. "You can't."

Tom knelt down beside her, stroking her hair gently. "Oh, my dear, I _always_ win." He paused for a moment in thought. "You know I was going to wander around trying to find a way out; however, this will be a good deal faster, it may cause you some discomfort though …" he ripped into her tattered mind tearing out the necessary information with ruthless determination before standing up and walking away from her. He ducked quietly into an alcove as another set of guards hurried by. There was no reason to take more risks than strictly necessary.

It took a little less than ten minutes to come to an iron bound door beside which scorch marks marked the way Harry and Arabella had passed. Tom opened the door a crack then with a final incantation slipped through, out into the fresh air. Inside the hill dark flames leapt and surged, mythical animals formed of intertwining fire began the hunt.

"Let us go," he said, shutting the door behind him.


	22. The Final Sound Part 1

**The Final Sound: Part One**

They arrived in Stuttgart in the late afternoon. The last sliver of the waning moon was already sinking below the towers and spires of the citadel and the smell of roasting apples and cinnamon drifted down the streets. Cor perched on Arabella's shoulder, beady eyes flicking hither and thither. A few young leaves shaken loose by the breeze spun in the air above their heads. The street was not particularly busy though occasional groups of wizards and witches clad in autumnal colours wandered along it. Dwarfs, goblins and a few humans strolled down towards the various entertainments of the low town.

A tall linden tree with huge spreading limbs crowned the top of the street. It forced the houses backwards so that their walls buckled away from its path and they stretched themselves ever higher to compensate. In the square moths and the occasional bat fluttered back and forward across it in the dusky light.

Harry, Tom and Arabella sat on a worn stone bench which nestled between the roots. By an aged battered water pump an unattended group of children competed to see how much water they could produce, getting satisfactorily soaked in the process.

"What do we do now?" Harry asked, leaning forward, his fingers pressing against his temples.

"Tell the princess?" Arabella suggested, calling upon the simple logic available to those who have not alienated a governing body.

"I can just see her taking that well: 'Hello your Royal Highness. We found the people who were kidnapping your subjects, but two of our companions are actually working with them, presumably under Malfoy's orders. What did we achieve? Well that's a good question … nothing would probably be the most accurate summation,'" Harry replied dryly. He sighed and looked up at the immovable stars.

"And most importantly: they are plan to wage war on you," Tom added lazily. There was opportunity in this situation, all he had to do was apply the right leverage.

"We can't _not_ tell her though," Arabella pointed out. "She needs to know. Would the Erlking help, Cor?"

Cor shook her head. "Can't intervene. Ought to tell him though." She shuffled nervously on Arabella's shoulder at the thought.

"Do we have any idea as to where they'll strike?" Harry asked. "If nothing else we can't just warn her against a general threat with nothing to show for it." There was silence as they considered the question. The scent of the night flowers drifted about them and the children, bored of their game, scampered away.

"Well," Tom said delighting in the power of knowledge, "their leader came across as a megalomaniac egotist. Which means there is only one place in the princedom he would deem worthy of an attack …"

"Here," Arabella whispered. "If he takes it he'd be able to destroy the city's dimensional wards – bring magic and mundane together in a single cataclysm, force a war upon us."

"Possibly," Tom corrected. "That would be a gamble. Even he might not take immediately. One can be mad without being utterly foolish. However, taking the city would certainly send out a strong message."

Harry ran his fingers through his already wild hair, scraping his scalp. "We need to tell her. There's no telling how soon they will act."

Tom smiled quietly. Then the smile faded like a flower caught in frost. He could see a newspaper vendor and the front page of each of almost all the papers were emblazoned with the same picture: a town burning. The sea was just visible beyond the smoke which merged with the slate grey sky. Tom leapt to his feet and marched across, flicking a coin to the girl manning the stall and ran his eyes quickly down the page.

"What is it?" Harry asked as Tom walked back towards them across the square. Tom tossed the paper to Arabella with a snarl.

She picked it up, straightening the crumpled page and her eyes widened. With a cough she began to read aloud, translating the German. "France and Britain declared war in the early hours of the morning. French officials have declared that war was the only solution to the continuous aggression of the British Minister, Draco Malfoy. They have also blamed his duplicity, and attempts to encroach upon French land, sovereignty and rights.

"In a daring display of gallantry three hundred French gendarmes launched a surprise attack upon the British stronghold at Calais. The British toe-hold in France, long resented by its native occupants, thought to be the base of covert operations by the British Ministry, appears to have been prepared for this eventuality. Lending weight to the theory that Minister Malfoy has been pushing the French President, Albert Chenault, towards this step. British troops managed held their positions until reinforcements arrived.

Reinforcements arrived and the British army under the war banner of their Empire (a dragon rampant) counter-attacked. They are said to have used brutal, lethal force, including spells internationally classed as dark magic. Despite this French forces held their own until a goblin warhost struck from the rear tearing down the international wards and slaughtering the French soldiers.

"Britain has created a media blackout, though they have issued a single statement condemning French aggression; thanking the valour of the goblin nation; declaring the magic used during the battle to have been proportionate and justified and stating their intent to fight 'until the bitter end'. Whatever that may be.

"Some reports have claimed that Minister Malfoy (b.1980) was seen leading the British counter-attack in person.

"This turn of events forces the question our political leaders have been avoiding for so long: with whom do we stand? Two of the great western European powers are at war. Can we stand by as the flames burn our neighbours' houses to the ground? Is it safe to do nothing? How will we react to goblin pressure after ...

" **Continued upon page seven**."

Arabella laid the paper down. On the cover the black and white photo flickered grimly as fiery tornadoes raged over the ghostly image of Calais. There was silence for a long moment.

"This has happened sooner than I had anticipated," Tom admitted. "Though I suppose it makes sense. If he had crippled the most powerful of the German princedoms France might have been more cautious. Now he will seek to crush any hope and destroy their morale. The Scandinavian countries are too preoccupied with guarding their eastern borders to concern themselves. The Spanish and Italians might take part, but by my estimation the Spanish Grandmaster is too cowardly, and the Italian lords never agree upon anything. If Germany faces a fresh daemon incursion ..."

"France will stand alone," Harry concluded, "and with a goblin army allied to the British forces whatever army they have left will be routed. Three hundred is a serious blow in any case."

"What of you two? Will her highness listen to you now that Britain is on the move?" Arabella fretted. Above them tiny silver lights were beginning to glimmer on the tree, shedding a faint, pale glow over the square.

"The Princess is aware that our allegiance to Britain is … less than absolute," Harry said, an unusually dark smile tugging at his lips. "In any case, we must try. Time will prove us right," he added as his hand fidgeted over the smooth ball of the old, golden snitch in his coat pocket.

"Let us hope, that time does not come too late," Tom observed sardonically. Silence fell again, broken only by the faint notes of a band playing a few streets away. Cor gave a disgruntled caw and leapt off Arabella's shoulder on her own private errand.

Tom stood wearily. "Come. If we must tell her we must. There is no reason to delay it. Quite the contrary," Pausing for a moment he whispered into Harry's ear, "There will be a price for this you know." Harry nodded, slightly.

They began to wind their way up the long, curling arcades and avenues towards the citadel. The city was quiet, filled with a lethargic warmth and contentment. Tiny crystal butterflies flitted around the trees and street corner; wings glittered like jewels in the starlight.

* * *

Merkel passed his hand over his face, trying to erase the weariness caused by the last few days. His cost study with its old, worn desk and book-lined walls was feeling uncomfortably crowded. The two Englishmen, the red-headed girl and a captain from the city guard were all crammed inside. All of them were speaking at once, it felt as though they were laying siege to his head. Only the elder Englishman remained quiet, leaninh against the wall, hooded, hawk-like eyes surveying the scene.

"You've got to listen ..."

"They were demanding to see the Princess ..."

"We have to act ..."

"Daemon hosts are not to be trifled with ..."

"Silence!" He slammed his hand down on the desk hard making his pens wobble. He shut his eyes tightly and wished desperately that they would all disappear. To his surprise silence fell. He reached out and caught a smooth egg shaped stone from his desk as it rolled towards the edge. Slowly turning it over in his hands he ordered his thoughts. His bright, bird-like eyes snapped open, fixing on the captain of the guard. "Captain, tell me, what were you saying?"

"Sir. These civilians claim they carry urgent information regarding an attack on the city. They had no identification, but the name of this individual when searched," he pointed to Harry, "was classified. He was to be brought to your attention, sir." He finished with a smart salute.

"Thank you captain. You may go now." The captain spun on his heel and marched from the room with another brisk salute. Merkel gave a small sigh, that man _loved_ saluting, it wore on Merkel's nerves. "Now, Herr Potter, what is it this time?"

"A daemon host led by an insane wizard, backed by Malfoy, is going to attack soon," Harry answered and winced at the improbable truth.

"Really Herr Potter? Our spy network has not mentioned this. You found out about it in what? A day and a half?" Merkel asked dryly. "You must admit that it doesn't sound likely. Nevertheless, I'll have the guard investigate and they will stay on high watch. Now is that everything?"

"Look, we need to see her Highness. This is too important to be put aside as 'interesting but unlikely'," Arabella insisted, gripping the edge of Merkel's desk, "if we could just see her maybe we could convin ..."

"Young lady, that is simply out of the question. Her Royal Highness is one of the most influential magical heads of state in Europe. You cannot simply demand an audience!" Merkel snapped.

Tom spoke slowly, his voice a low purr, "What if we are right? What if you doom this city by preventing an audience? There is after all information I will only impart to her. Ten minutes is all we ask, so ten minutes or your destruction?"

"People give the same speeches every day. What makes you special?" Merkel asked querulously, shuffling papers to the side.

"I am an immortal dark lord. He is the boy-who-never-dies, and she is moderately intelligent," Tom said. Arabella huffed in offence. "If you are going to listen to anyone, listen to us."

Merkel sniffed disbelievingly, "We will see. I shall pass on the message."

"Good. It is for the best if you do your utmost to ensure a meeting in the very near future. Which is to say with a few hours," Tom assured him with regal calm as he flexed himself and opened the door.

Harry and Arabella followed him out with a polite "good evening". The captain of the guard who had been waiting led the way to the apartments which were still set aside for their use.

Night fell over the city as the starlight gradually faded until only the tiniest pinpricks of white dotted the black sky. The wind keened around the towers of the citadel and rustled the silvery leaves of the trees. Stuttgart slowly fell asleep. Revellers returned home; inns, taverns, restaurants and bars shut, and lights winked off until only the light of the trees mirrored the stars above.

Harry paced. His mind played over events again and again. At last, desperate for a change he stepped out onto the small staircase which had squeezed itself in between the sleeping quarters and the main room since their last stay. Three staircases merged into one. A small window criss-crossed with diamond shaped panes of glass allowed for a ghostly illumination. Everything was tinged with the strange shades of blue, black and grey given only by starlight. Arabella was there, gazing silently outwards. She flinched as Harry stepped out of his room and then relaxed marginally.

"Thank you," said Harry after a short pause, folding his hands behind his back.

"What for?" She asked, staring unblinkingly from the window.

"For coming back. Not everyone would have."

"I can't say that I trust you or _him_ for that matter, but this is my homeland … if it is in danger I _shall_ do whatever is necessary to protect it," she answered softly. "Don't make me regret my better feelings Harry."

"I'll do my best."

"How do you think of yourself?" The question was almost pleading, searching for an answer she did not expect to receive. "How do you think you'll be remembered, for this?" She waved her hand vaguely as if to encompass the city.

"I won't. I am the man who was never there," Harry said, pushing his hands into his pockets.

"That sounds incredibly pompous you know," she replied, almost amused.

"Maybe," Harry admitted grudgingly. "It's true though. You know about me because of your family history, but there aren't all that many records left to show who or what I was, this is just another time when I wasn't here. No one will want to mention it, no one will really see the need." He peered out at the dozing city over Arabella's shoulder. "What do you think they're dreaming of?" He asked.

"The same things as always: happiness, grief, love, lust, cabbages, school, work, half-eaten sandwiches chasing them … didn't you ever have that dream? Never-mind then," Arabella said, wrapping her arms around herself. "What do _you_ think of yourself?"

"If we're going to go for flowery statements then I am the man who sold the world," he smiled, grimly. "I don't know if the price was right."

She said nothing for a little while. "Maybe there wasn't a 'right' price," she said and looked away, "maybe it was the only price you could ask."

He nodded, deciding not to push her on the point.

"Is it safe working with _him_ though?" She asked after a pause, a tremor running through her voice.

"Safe? No. Tom … he isn't like other people. Other murderers need to work themselves up a bit, on the whole. It's part of the reason you don't see everyone using the killing curse. It takes a passion for death. Tom … Tom just kills. There's a rhyme and a reason to it normally, and he undoubtedly enjoys it, but he just kills. He snuffs out life as carelessly as most men turn pages in a book. He's not safe and working with him would probably kill anyone else, but he needs me.

"Once he thought I was a threat to his survival and he did everything he could to kill me. Now he believes the reverse and you've seen what he'll do to protect that …" Harry shuddered. "It's not that he cares about me, I think, but he cares about what I represent: his life."

"That doesn't sound healthy," Arabella said. "Do you think that he'll actually try and protect Stuttgart?"

"Probably, if only to spite Malfoy and Thorbecombe; Richard I mean," Harry answered. "What are you going to do when this is over?"

"Go home, bury Frederick and the others. Finish the jobs I have on the go …"

"And then?"

"Take a holiday perhaps. Journey in any case. I visited India a few years ago. I'd like to go back and see more of it," Arabella said, wistfully turning back to look out of the window. "It doesn't feel as safe out there as it once did. They say that one of the wizarding menageries in India has one of the last breeding pairs of Hungarian Horntails, though don't ask me why they should be living in India. It would be the shame to miss the sight of the last of a species."

"It's a shame that they are the last," Harry muttered. "It's been going that way for a while though. Did you know I was in a contest with one once? Nasty bugger, it did its best to roast me."

"I can't remember being told anything about that."

"I'd have been toast if your grandmother hadn't spent days training me … actually that happened rather a lot," he admitted shamefacedly. He felt a twinge of guilt at the attempt to win trust, but it was after all simply a more calculated form of everyday interaction.

"You kept up the habit of getting into danger then?" She said. "What was she like when she was young? What were they like?"

"Brilliant. Clever beyond belief, brave and very, very rule abiding to begin with; he was loyal, brave and had a sense of humour which … well if I'm honest it was an acquired taste at times. They were family," he smiled sadly. "I don't suppose they changed that much."

"The war left scars. There were things they never talked about. Names which Grandfather refused to hear. Places you were not to mention within the hearing of one or the other. Opa's sense of humour … that stayed the same," she smiled at the memory of one of Ron's jokes. A night bird soared by the window presumably hunting.

Above them, Tom listened through his door to their conversation. He slowly traced his new wand through the air, testing it, familiarising himself with the wand and in turn the wand with him. As Ollivander had told him long, long ago, "The wand chooses the wizard Mr Riddle", it was only polite to become acquainted. He looked to the window where a myriad stars were burning up in their death throes every instant, invisible and intangible.

It was barely past six when they were ushered unto the Princess' audience chamber. Pairs of guards in their sweeping cloaks, the colour of burnished gold stood to attention on either side of the great doors and each of the antechambers. The princess sat in a tall, high-backed seat on top of a low dais. The floor was green marble and the walls were draped with the banners of the various provinces within the realm.

The Princess was dressed in a long, formal, dark, blue robe trimmed with ermine. Her face was haggard, dark circles surrounded her eyes, emphasising her drooping cheeks. One hand gripped the arm of the chair as a support.

"Your Royal Highness," Harry began with a quick bow. "Thank you for permitting us this audience."

"You forget your manners Herr potter. In the presence of royalty the form is only to speak when spoken to. However, given the pressures we are under I shall forgive you. I have little time, do not waste it," she replied firmly. "Speak quickly. Merkel informs me you have information on the disappearances, and perhaps on those matters which we discussed in private."

"It is more serious than it seemed. There is a group of daemon summoners in the Black Forest. They are gathering an army ..." Harry with only a moment's hesitation as he ordered the facts.

"... And plan to attack tonight," Tom finished with dark gravitas. He looked almost like a solemn priest in his black robe.

There was a shocked pause as the princess gave a muffled gasp. She passed a hand over her eyes. "Where? What force do they have? Who are they? Where can we find them?" She asked after a short pause.

"Given that their base was in the Black Forest, in an area I can only give the broadest of indications as to, their most likely target is here," Arabella supplied. Her tone was clipped and curt. The response to her presence last time they had come to the city had not, it appeared, endeared the ruler to her. Thankfully the Princess was too preoccupied to notice.

Interrupting to divert attention from her manner Harry continued, albeit slightly mockingly, "Given that they are daemon summoners my guess is that the army will be … hellish. As to the wizards themselves you might have a better idea than we. They are, we should explain, supported by Draco Malfoy. Our companions, Richard Thorbecombe and Katherine …" he paused racking his memory for her name.

"Haslingdon," Tom supplied, to Harry's surprise, "was her last name. To cut a long story short they betrayed us to the enemy."

The Princess took a moment to steady herself, "And why Herr Riddle should I believe a word _you_ say? I do not suppose you could give me anything as concrete as the name of one of these terrorists?"

Tom smiled sharply, his expression almost vulpine. "Why indeed. Save of course the corroboration of my _dear_ companions here. Their leader was Ambrose Fairechild …" he paused letting the name sink in. Harry's eyes widened at the same instant as Arabella's jaw dropped. "Her brother," he added for the Princess' benefit, gesturing towards Arabella.

There was a silence hung in the air for a moment. The Princess, when she spoke, did so deliberately and clearly, "Guards arrest that woman and take her away."

Harry stepped forward as if attempting to bar the way. "Don't be ridiculous. She's on our side …"

"Whether that is true or not she may prove a useful bargaining chip, if you are correct."

"You can't just arrest her though. She hasn't done anything," Harry protested.

Arabella held up a hand to silence him as the guards surrounded her. "It is acceptable. It is only sensible. A prince must guard her people."

The Princess nodded, seemingly satisfied, before adding, "You are correct though Herr Potter, I will not _just_ arrest her. Guards, arrest them all."

Harry held out his hands allowing the guards to bind them. Tom, oddly, put up no protest.

"Do not be alarmed gentlemen, madam, this will only be necessary until your report is confirmed," the Princess reassured them. "Captain, take a party and search the area of the forest this lady will indicate for you. Put the guard on alert. My apologies, but I am sure you can understand that we cannot allow the family of a man accused of treason freedom at such a time. Nor can we allow the representatives of a hostile government apparently seeking to sabotage our own to roam as their fancy takes them.

"Gentlemen, you will be escorted back to your apartments and your wands will be returned to you. Your personal interests suggest to me that this is a safe course of action. Naturally the wards will be set to prevent exit. I trust you will not test the patience of a prince by testing them.

"Frau Fairechild," she said turning to Arabella who met her gaze squarely, "your quarters will not be unpleasant. I cannot say that I hope to see you again soon. I suggest you ruminate upon whatever seems most fitting to you." She sat back on her throne as the guards led them from the chamber. The bronze doors shut behind them with a dull thump.

* * *

A few hours later as Tom replaced the lid of the teapot and finished buttering his final slice of toast Harry broached the subject which had been niggling at the back of his mind.

"What do you want Tom?" Harry asked, standing and rolling up his sleeves as he took up a duelling stance at the centre of the room, facing a target provided by the guards at his request.

"My dear boy, I really do not know what you are talking about," Tom said, taking a bite from the toast as he reclined in his chair. Fresh star light glinted through the windows, painting shifting patterns on the floor.

"You indicated that there would be a price for your help, correct?" Harry asked, flicking his wand towards the target. It began to spin, faster and faster, the colours blurring together. "What is it?"

Tom spun out the silence considering slowly. "I have no desire to place myself in danger. Malfoy's actions are … frustrating, but I will not put myself at risk to thwart him. Even if the city is besieged I can leave with ease." That at least was a half-truth. "You realise that if I deem this situation too dire your oath might well compel you to follow? There is one thing you can offer me though ..." he let the sentence hang, forcing Harry to ask.

The target spat out a red pulse of magic. " _Protego_!" Harry snapped up a shield letting it smash the bolt aside. "Name it."

"I want a favour … nothing major, no changes to the bond between us. It shall last no longer than five minutes and I shall ask no action from you, all you need give me is your word that it will be granted when and where I ask," Tom explained pleasantly, finishing off the toast and delicately wiping his fingers on a napkin before picking up a book he had begun the night before.

"That sounds dangerously imprecise, but under the provision that you will fight to save Stuttgart, and do all in your power to stop Malfoy's plans, fine," Harry said grudgingly. He knew Tom's disinterest in foiling the plans of a man who had endangered his existence was false, but even taking that into account the cost seemed remarkably light.

"Yes," Tom promised. He wondered what price he would exact, in the end it would probably matter little whether the boy kept his word or not. In the end the agony of guilt would be as pleasing either way.

"Agreed then. _Schermare!_ " Harry shouted, the shimmering shield rang as a pale grey bolt rebounded. " _Venare_!" A slice of golden light slashed across the target, slicing it in two and carrying on deep into the wall behind. The target shivered and sealed closed once more.

" _Schermare_? I had not realised that you favoured _that_ spell," Tom remarked, turning over another page. "Personally I have always favoured _Clypeus._ "

"I prefer mobility. _Clypeus_ has the tendency to tie you down behind heavy defences … _s_ _chermare_ gives a thicker shield, even if it is smaller," Harry argued. He wordlessly countered a set of minor jinxes and curses, identifying them by the colour of the blasts.

"A dueller's shield, not a warlord's," Tom argued sourly. "Where do you think that wretched bird is? Much as I dislike her presence the absence makes me worry more."

"Who knows, delivering messages to her master? Or simply finding something to her taste to eat. It could be either," Harry replied with a shrug, ducking a blast he failed to recognise. The chair behind him began to crawl with petunias. Harry grimaced.

The day drifted by one slow hour following another. Harry's practiced incessantly whilst Tom made occasional remarks and finished one book after another before eventually he began to pace as the light of the stars outside faded from day into dusk.

They ate a light supper, wrapped up in their own private thoughts and concerns. Harry fidgeted, unable to escape the sense of impending catastrophe which stole over the city like a vast lethifold. Tom ate lightly, drinking only water. Night fell as the last light of day faded and the moon lay invisible in the black sky.

Harry wandered to the window and looked out over the city. Something far beyond the walls caught his eye. In the fields beyond there were bonfires springing into life. Smoke and a cold night time mist swirled around them. His heart froze for a second before beating faster as if to make up for the pause.

"They're here," he whispered. He put down a cut crystal tumbler as he drew his wand. Seconds later the great iron warning bell began to toll.

A few minutes later there came a knock at the door and it opened for a young guard, barely in his twenties to enter the room, he was tall with the build of a beater, but his eyes held a nervous panic, barely contained and his face was pasty. "Gentleman, her Royal Highness requests your presence in the lower city."

* * *

Ambrose stood, watching, as the captives who had been saved from the raging fiendfyre which had ravaged the fortress were brought forward. They were too heavily drugged to resist and they were swiftly herded to the head of the craggy outcrop. There their necks were slit and the blood drained. It ran in black streams down into the shallow channels cut in the rocks before pooling in the twin pits which had been carved into the stone, seven feet and seven inches apart.

He felt heavy and drowsy. The rituals to enhance his body and power had left him, ironically, drained for the time being. There were whole stretches of time he could not remember now. The end was near. He stepped forwards, on either side the huge daemonic hounds crouched like insectile watchdogs. He raised his hand, tracing runes in the air, and began to chant. The bonfires sprang into life below, forming a great circle around them. The land shivered, grasses twisted and waved as a chill mist rose. The blood began to flow upwards into the air, freezing as it went, forming a towering arch of red ice from which hung a fluttering, red curtain.

The other wizards and witches stepped backwards. The blood began to glow with an inner light. Behind him Richard retreated furthest of all, cautiously positioning himself behind a convenient rocky outcrop. He discreetly checked the inked protections against daemons which criss-crossed his arms.

"Blood, unwillingly taken, I offer. Blood of my body I willingly give!" Ambrose called into the howling teeth of the gale which came whipping through the portal. It was hot, sticky and rank with the scent of rotting things. "I open the way between worlds. Send forth all legions of Hell to serve my purpose! Until blood of my blood willingly given shuts the way." The last captive slumped, drained of blood.

Between the twisted columns of crimson ice the gate rippled. A shadow moved across the surface of the red veil. It shifted, snakelike, as it crossed the stones and flowed up and around Ambrose. He screamed as his body was lifted into the air, revealing arms free of any protection. He twitched and then there was silence. He slumped on the ground, still. A minute passed, then two. Ambrose's body stood and slowly turned to face the city.

Even in the darkness Richard could see he was gone, or at least not alone.

"The pact holds. Come. Let Hell reign on Earth."


	23. The Final Sound Part Two

**The Final Sound Part II**

The veil rippled and the daemon host flowed out. Skinless hounds with dark fire running over their muscles; praying mantis like predators which skittered over the ground, mandibles clicking; hammer-headed daemons with maces and blades of bone; flaming daemon sorcerers; a multitude of strange, warped creatures, and striding above them all the thirteen foot high daemon lords, some with many blinking eyes, others with half a dozen sinuous arms each grasping fine, wire-thin blades of shadow and hell-forged night, came pouring from the gate. At the head of the crag Ambrose smiled, his face pale and wan, skin splitting at the lips as he smiled wider and wider. Blood trickled down his chin.

* * *

Arabella was woken by the booming toll of the city's iron bells. She had fallen asleep on the bed in the corner of her cell to escape from the endless self-questioning. She tried to pull herself up to peer out of the window, but it was just beyond her reach. A small jump earned her a glimpse of the city and dull orange lights beyond the walls, blurred by a rising mist. She sat down on the edge of the bed, frustrated, waiting as feet pounded along the corridor beyond.

A voice boomed from the guard's quarters, "A choice lies before you: her Royal Highness offers you a pardon. If you take up arms to defend your city. We open this offer to all. We will come to your cells one by one, and you may choose. If you do not accept … pray we win. "

The silence which followed lasted only a few seconds before it was broken by a cacophony of shouting. Arabella jammed her fingers in her ears, trying to ignore it, striving to keep herself calm. One by one the cell doors swung open and the inmates either walked out to receive their wands or decided to risk safety. Arabella stood watching them pass by. A dark skinned man in umber robes saw her watching as he passed and winked in unashamed amusement.

By the time Arabella had been released the man was chatting with the sergeant. The sergeant looked as if he wished that the release of the prisoners would take a great deal longer, "... send me to your commander. Daemons are something I have personal expertise in dealing with." He smiled broadly and thanked a guard as he was handed a long staff, topped with a ram's horn.

Arabella's attention was distracted again as a guard clamped a thin, grey bracelet around her wrist and handed her wand to her. "Just a precaution, so you don't break the deal. If you run we blow your hand off; if you try and curse us in the back, we blow your hand off. You get the idea," the guard said tersely.

She nodded brusquely, "I understand."

"Right. We'll lead you down to the square. Your name?" He asked flipping open a notebook.

"Do you have time? I thought we were under siege," she said. There was the slight chance that she would not be allowed out if he learnt her name, even if she had not been generally black-marked.

"It's orders. You might have talents we can use …" A wailing cry started suddenly. It climbed into the sky, making the hairs stand up on her neck and her flesh covered itself in goosebumps. "Let's go," the guard said, face pale. With a handful of guards around them the prisoners trotted down the stairs and winding passages. There were not a many of them in the group, perhaps twenty in total. As they passed windows Arabella caught sight of flames spreading across the city as fireballs hurtled over the walls, and spellfire flashed on the ramparts.

The streets were teeming with civilians, men women and children. Many were too old, too young, or too weak to fight flowing towards the citadel. Dwarfs, goblins, alfar and all the numerous citizens of Stuttgart mixed together and the guards moved through them like salmon swimming up-river. The citadel itself had changed. The delicate spires and gently sloping rooftops were gone, replaced by vast, cliff-like walls, enormous towers with high bretèche, numerous machicolations, and a superfluity of arrow slits. It blocked out the stars, leaving an ominous silhouette looming over the city.

A small child wailed on the street, bereft of its parents, but a hurrying dwarf drew it to safety. Others, armed and armoured with whatever they could find flowed downwards. The street was a milling, pushing crowd. Fear filled the air sweat, mixing with wood smoke as the outer buildings began to burn. Presumably the princess must have noticed as the street split in two guiding those preparing to fight down into the town, away from the panic and closer to the walls.

They came to a square forced in between the houses. A fountain rose in the centre. Water curled upwards, shaped and frozen so that steps of ice and wet marble melded together. It twisted like cloth into a towering pulpit on which the Princess stood. She was clad in leather armour, and a rich, blue cloak ran from her shoulders.

* * *

Harry and Tom arrived in the square as the last troops of the latest battalion lined up. Twenty dwarfs and goblins in plate armour which glittered with starlight mingled with the tall alfar who held long pale swords which ran with blue and white flames, and a collection of shabbily dressed witches and wizards. Tom twitched as he recognised Mustaphar leaning on his staff in their midst. The sorcerer looked up and gave a cheery wave.

The Princess raised her wand and a crack of thunder echoed around the square. Her very presence lent the fleeing Stuttgartians hope as they passed the square. "Alfar, dwarfs, goblins, witches, wizards! Tonight we stand together, fight together, and die together! Above all we _shall_ win together! Hold the walls, for your city, your kin, and your honour!" The cheer was led mainly by the handful of guards around the square's perimeter, the reaction from the ex-prisoners was somewhat less than enthusiastic.

A guard ran up to the base of the podium. After a moment's discussion with the bodyguards a whispered message was carried to the Princess. She gave a curt nod and with a regal wave descended. The guards ushered Harry and Tom over. A handful of volunteers rushed by to douse the burning city as they went to her. A troupe of bodyguards with light, rune covered, wooden shields bound to their forearms and wands drawn surrounded her. Mustaphar, leaning on his staff stood to one side.

"Ah! Herr Potter, Herr Riddle," she snapped over the roaring of a fireball as it crashed to earth a street away. Solid fire melted into living flames. Two of the guards raised shields of eggshell thin magic, deflecting the blast. "I have a job for you." She smiled grimly.

"Of course," Harry said with a slight bow of his head. Tom rolled his eyes discreetly. Above something shrieked, a shadow flickered overhead in the night, blotting out a few barely visible stars.

The Princess frowned, letting Tom's behaviour pass. "Teams are seeking out the source of this assault. Thankfully they have made it quite obvious. You will form one such team. You have a volunteer, I believe you have met …"

"Charmed," Mustaphar purred with an exaggerated bow. His glittering eyes never left Tom's face.

Tom gave a curt nod, "How much time do we have?"

"As little time as it takes. Do you need to make a plan? We may buy you time, though I do not know how long the walls will hold," she answered. Her eyes scanned the crowd as troops were directed off towards various sections of the walls. "I shall need to sequester myself in the citadel soon. If the crowds have passed. Of all the times to be out in the city."

"A plan ma'am? When have I ever needed a plan?" Tom asked with a quick smile. Then with the air of a man producing flowers from nothing, "I will simply make it up as I go."

The Princess hesitated for a moment. An ear shattering crash split the air. The ground shook. Tiles slithered from the roofs, smashing on the cobbles. She crouched as shields linked over her. She straightened as the last fragments of the tiles settled. "Go. Cut off the serpent's head." Tom winced as she turned towards the walls starting to shout orders.

Without a word they left the square, taking a guess at the shortest route towards the walls. Arabella slipped away from the milling troops in the square, following the three wizards, left and then right along the curving streets.

She caught up with them at a crossroads where three houses leaned towards each other like conspirators. A daemon crouched in the centre of the crossroads. Its skin was frayed at the edges like old cloth. A gaping toothless mouth was just visible below a deep cowl. It carried a long notched sword in its right hand and sickle in its left. Three dwarfs lay around it, or at least Arabella _thought_ there were three dwarfs. She could see only three heads, but given the condition of the bodies it was difficult to tell.

There was the hiss of a spell from Tom as he caught sight of the creature and the green light of the killing curse ripped through the air setting her teeth on edge. The daemon twisted aside with preternatural speed, letting the spell splash against the wall behind it, tiny cracks running over its surface.

"So daemons are not soulless, or at least you're not," Tom purred as he stalked around the daemon. It turned its head, twisting to an impossible angle. Then the hood split in two, letting a second, cowled face keep watch over Mustaphar and Harry. "Now what to do with you ..."

It was disconcerting to see a man at ease with daemons. From the shadows Arabella aimed her wand at the creature's chest. He seemed untouched by the discomfort which the creature's presence evoked in Arabella. She felt as though her skin were trying to crawl away, rebelling at its mere existence.

"Kill and be done," Harry muttered. "We have job to do." He raised his own wand and with a deft flick of the wrist a lance of fire shot through the air, burning away the sickly, sweet smell which had descended upon the crossroads.

The daemon raised its weapons and the flames melted away. It stood and the robe it wore like a second skin flowed downwards smoothly. It cocked its dual head, unseen eyes regarding them; calculating the odds of taking down three prepared wizards. Then without a sound it slid forwards. There was no clumsy running stride, only a straight, clean, glide towards Mustaphar. The sorcerer barely raised his staff in time to block the sword. He twisted his body awkwardly to avoid the sickle. He caught the sword in the curl of the ram's horn, pulled it to one side and ducked under a sweep of the sickle.

Harry and Tom struck. Curses leapt through the air, only for the daemon to bat them aside with the sickle, while it wrenched at the sword. A small snarl was tugged from Mustaphar's lips as he held the daemon's blade steady. It was enough to break Arabella's inertia and she struck. The pale blue light of the blasting curse surged forwards. The daemon twisted, trying to heave the dark skinned magician into its path, but it did not have enough leverage. It swept the sickle round, the metal hummed with a strange, metallic note. It caught the curse and reflected it back towards Arabella, but too late. Harry and Tom had taken their chance and twin spells struck the creature from either side. Its robe imploded and exploded simultaneously. Red and blue light shot through it in curving arcs as the spells struck against one another and a muted thunderclap shook the alley.

Once Arabella had picked herself up there was almost nothing left. A few shards of shattered, grey metal tinkled on the floor, rolling away from Mustaphar's boots as he turned towards Arabella. "Next time," he said, "try to stop it before it is close enough to tear out my throat. Good evening, my lady."

"Hi," Arabella said, stepping forwards from the shadows. Tom nodded to her coolly, though Harry flashed a brief, worried smile at her.

"Now if you would be so kind," Mustaphar said, lowering his staff to point it at her chest, "open your mouth or I will blast a hole so far through you they'll be scrapping the ashes off the wall for a month."

She hesitated for a moment, uncertain, but opened her mouth obligingly. Mustaphar took a step closer, a pale white light blossomed around the staff's tip. He glanced at her teeth before visibly relaxing. "What was that about?" She asked, closing her mouth again.

"Daemons who take human form … their teeth glint with gold in were-light. Usually," he added. "We can trust no-one, no matter what form they bear."

"Who _are_ you?" She asked. "I saw you at the prison cells."

"He's the one who killed Tom the other day," Harry said, his eyes turned to Tom, waiting for his mask to falter. Dark eyes stared back, impassive.

"Guilty as charged, but not convicted as yet," Mustaphar said, a half-smile dancing on his lips.

"Ah," she said quietly, taking a step backwards. Tom raised an eyebrow.

The crackle of flames and the hiss and crack of bricks in the heat faded away. A hush fell over the street. Ash floated down through the air, gusted on currents generated by the fires. Arabella swallowed, the sounded thudded in her ears. Tension rippled in the air, and then the feeling passed.

Harry leant against the stone cornerstones of one of the older houses. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated. "What was that?"

"Some thing's broken the city's defences," Arabella whispered, "something _big._ We need to move."

Mustaphar grasped his staff, planting it against the cobbles as the others adjusted their grips on their wands. Then, side by side, they strode down the long straight street of old mansions built from golden limestone. Above the rooftops which almost nudged against one another the air sang with the cries from the riders of the granian horses and brooms as they danced with the winged daemons, trading blows with spells and spears for the slash of claws and whip of tails.

The street was almost three hundred yards long but at every alley they waited, breath bated for a nightmare to lunge from the shelter of the shadows. Mustaphar kept his eyes on the way ahead whilst Tom, Harry and Arabella guarded up, down, the sides and behind as best they could. Nothing came for them. The lack of attack was almost worse on their nerves. They were nearing the end when Arabella heard the sound of a child crying a street away.

"We have to stop. We need to help. It's not safe for it," she said, turning in her tracks to look for some passage through the blank street wall.

Harry turned to her, bemused, "What?"

"The child. Surely you can hear it. It must be inside this house, or behind it perhaps …" she said, pressing her hand to the stones.

Harry shook his head, "I can't hear any child Arabella. We can't stay here. We have to keep moving."

She looked at the others, desperately hoping for support, "Come on, one of you must be able to hear it?"

They shook their heads. She stepped backwards. Looking for any door or window. There were none. Then she watched as a door blossomed from the stonework. It was small and made from a dark, slick wood, ringed around with burnished bronze. She reached towards it, and flinched as Harry pushed her aside. He stared at the door warily. It swung open just a little, the child's cries louder than ever.

"Surely you can hear it now?" She asked. He nodded, pale. "We need to help it," she insisted. They stepped towards the door and ran into a solid wall of air. Her eyes flicked to the right. Tom held out his wand like a bar.

"I hear nothing," he said coolly. "I would advise you both to think with your heads and not with your hearts." He flicked his wand and a stone rose from the street before sailing towards the door. As it touched the wood it exploded into green flames. The stone melted into nothing within a heartbeat. The crying stopped, and the house screamed.

They ran, only stopping as they reached a square where a tall oak stood serenely. Two houses at the far side were burning, but the wind was blowing the flames away for the moment.

"What was that?" Arabella panted. Her heart was raced from fear as well as from the sprint.

"It would seem they are beginning to infect the city itself. Soon nothing will be safe. Hell is open and all the devils are here," Tom said. Then he added, "An emotional appeal, naturally it would affect you two."

"Uh-o, here comes trouble," Harry muttered, looking towards the other end of the square. Two hounds, the size of cart horses, padded through the gap between the two flaming houses. Their eyes glowed with a pale, ghostly light; their skinless bodies oozed blood which dripped slowly from their lean sinews. One opened its mouth, the permanent snarl of its jaws stretching wider. The teeth elongating as it caught their scent. The other opened its mouth and the mangled carcass of a gold cloaked figure tumbled onto the cobbles.

"Today just keeps getting better and better," Tom said. Arabella looked at him, trying to gauge whether it was meant to be ironic. She did not know which she found more disturbing: that it might not be, or that if it was then Lord Voldemort had a sense of humour. " _Argentum_." A silver javelin flew from the tip of his wand, and another, and another.

The hound they were aimed at leapt. It almost cleared them. The first two javelins sailed where its eyes had been moments before. The third, aimed a little high, as Tom finished the final wand movement caught its hind leg. The silver steamed as daemon-flesh blackened around it. Tom's free hand moved and the silver mirrored it. It snaked up the hound's leg, flowing like water. The second hound loped forwards, dodging between Harry and Arabella's curses. Mustaphar muttered and the wind swept down in a tornado, whirling smoke, fire and ash around the hound. It yelped, snapping yellow fangs in pain. He stepped forward, lashing out with his staff, catching it on the flank. The blow was light, but the black marks on his hands swirled and the air hummed. The daemon was hurled across the courtyard. It smashed into the oak. The tree shook under the impact. It slid down onto the pool of grass.

Harry spun around. His wand slashed upwards. A thin line of orange light sliced through a heavy branch. It crashed earthwards, crushing the stunned hound. The daemon twitched and lay still. A thin, dark grey mist rose from it and slid into nothing. The ground was bare, the soft grass where it had lain was now a sickly yellow. Then the flames which ran across the house were sinking lower, flickering green as the orange and red leached away.

"Why couldn't it have been a horde of butterflies?" Harry asked no-one in particular.

Tom smiled and flourished his wand in one final movement. The enchanted silver which now fully encased the hound gave a muted flash and settled into a glittering statue.

"The hunter follows the hounds," Mustaphar remarked and a pale nimbus of light began to build around the tip of his staff. "Let us test his mettle."

"You know, you need to learn to move with the times," Tom observed, "staves, staffs and the like have been out of fashion for a while. Too slow, too … inelegant. Not up to scratch." He flicked his wand out. Curling tongues of smoke coalesced around him from the burning buildings, they swayed slowly, shrouding him.

The hunter stepped around the corner. It was naked, blue skin marred by twisting tattoos of red spiralling over its torso, head and arms. It was unnaturally thin, the height of a tall man, but half the width. Its limbs were almost stick like. The face was blank save for two sharp, narrow eyes, neither nose nor mouth broke the smooth skin.

It lifted its hands. Holding the left steady it drew the right through the air. With a shiver like a heat haze a small obsidian box materialised between them. The movement took the twinkling of an eye. Arabella struck. Her spell flew wide and the box lid flipped open. Pale spiderlike creatures swarmed over its arms, down its legs.

Harry moved his wand downwards, firing banishing curses into the wave. The blasts shattered delicate carapaces and legs. Arabella joined him, her spells gouged holes in the cobbles, scattering the oncoming swarm. No matter what they did for every one which fell there was another and another and another, crawling over the bodies of the fallen.

Mustaphar let loose the bolt of power he had gathered. The hunter raised its hands and the fine, blueish beam struck against a blood red dome. The impact was greater than either had anticipated and they were lifted off their feet, hurtling over the cobbles. Mustaphar's staff rolled to one side just out of reach and the daemon smashed into the wall of a house. Stones cracked under the impact.

Tom lashed out, whips of smoke and shadow flicking towards the hunter. It rolled beneath their grasp and they sliced into the wall behind it. It flung out its arm and the air pulsed. The smoky shield around Tom shivered and collapsed, ebbing away into nothing. The spiders were upon them in a wave. Harry and Arabella flailed, stamped and spat curses sending the creatures flying. They died easily, but never fast enough. Razor sharp jaws clamped down on Arabella's shin, tearing through the cloth with ease and ripping free a long sliver of skin. She screamed batting it aside and retreating, blood streaming from her leg. A fire hex from Harry roasted a dozen of them giving her time.

Harry had taken off his coat. It provided little protection against their swift attacks, and was using it to knock them aside as he tried to get a shot at the box. Two blasting curses went wide, ripping holes in their numbers. The spiders pushed the box away from the blasts, and he had to fall back. Harry switched to a pale whip of fire to keep them at bay. It flicked back and forth, scorching those who gathered too close. Sweat beaded on his brow as the spell began to take its toll. He stepped sideways slowly. The flame began to shrink fractionally as he drew side by side with Arabella.

Tom looped his wand around in a tight circle. The fallen oak branch hurtled through the air with the force of a battering ram. The wood exploded as it hit the wall next to the hunter, tiny splinters erupting outwards. The hunter tore at its flesh, ripping the wood out furiously. Mustaphar rolled, grasped his staff and bellowed out a curse which shattered the windows of the square. Shards of glass paused in their fall before, directed, by Tom's wand they flew in a glittering flock down the street. The outriders decimated the spiders.

"Aim for the box," Harry said and stepped closer to Arabella. The shrinking strand of fire was barely keeping the spiders six feet away now. Arabella had already been forced to intervene to stop the few which had attempted to rush them.

The flames around the square leapt as the glass ripped through the daemon's weakened shield, tearing it and the creature's flesh apart. Red flames burst into life again with redoubled force. The oak began to burn. Wood cracked and snapped under the hungry fire. The hunter shivered, twitched and grew still, vanishing into a thin mist. The spiders paused, without thought or direction now that their master was gone. Arabella trained her wand on the box, resting it on her left forearm, " _Reducto_!" The bright red blasting curse flashed against the black box, and with a crack like a gunshot the box flew apart. It was the work of a moment to eliminate the last spiders.

"Can you run on that leg?" Harry asked. Blood smeared the ground around Arabella's footprints. She nodded, tying a strip of cloth torn from her sleeve around the largest of the wounds. Harry was not unmarked, but most of his wounds were only scratches. "I'm afraid I'm not much good when it comes to healing and it's virtually an anathema to Tom."

"Don't worry, I'll cope," she said, standing up, with only a slight wince. He looked as if he might disagree, but thought better of it.

Fire was spreading over the other houses and the oak as they left the square. They turned right and then left dodging through darkened alleys. They swerved round corners, past fire teams and groups of soldiers smeared with blood and soot. Round the corner of a spiralling street they were forced to turn back. A group of alfar were weaving in and out amongst a handful of hooded daemons and shield wall of dwarfs with long pikes had closed beyond them. Beyond the shields a pack of hounds prowled snarling. Goblin archers shot silver bolts into the daemons' ranks, keeping them at bay. They doubled back upon themselves looping left and right under archways and over a small bridge across a brook which bubbled and steamed.

The bells were slowly falling silent. Smoke and fire blotted out the sky. Even the citadel was barely visible, lights burning at the arrow slits. Flashes of green light zipped away from the snipers who hid behind the battlements. Closer to the walls the sounds screams, battle cries and roaring bellowing became louder and louder.

They turned one final corner and the walls of the city reared up before them. They were sixty foot high and twelve foot thick. Runes of guard and ward blazed upon them. Golden fire flickered over the stones. They would have looked indomitable, had it not been for the breach which had been torn in them. Stones lay shattered around it. Around the breach teams of wizards duelled with daemon sorcerers. Meanwhile, goblins and dwarfs with blades of silver and cold iron hacked, slashed and fought tooth and nail against the daemonic host. For the moment the defences held. Whilst the fiends fought as individuals the allies fought as one. Some daemons escaped the melee, dashing into the city to wreak havoc.

Then with a rush a creature twice the height of a man leapt over the wall. It had long, curving, horns and bronzed flesh which rippled with wiry muscles. It gleamed beneath the blood which spattered its body. In its left hand it carried a sword as long as Harry was tall. The crosspiece was made from twisted, black iron and the blade hummed as it cut the air. It smashed into the defenders, throwing them right and left. Swords and spells rebounded from its flesh and the defenders fled.

Harry and the others ducked into an alcove, shielded from sight, as the daemons pursued the defenders with eager, wailing cries. Those who stood their ground were isolated and cut down. There was blood, fear and chaos. As many men fell in a minute as in the rest of the skirmish.

Harry waited for what felt like an age and poked his head out. Only the greater daemon was still there. It sniffed the air, the long head rose, a black tongue flicked out to taste the air. Mist from the field beyond curled around its cat like paws as it padded over the stones. The golden fires died around it. The air was hushed.

"We _need_ to get by it. Anyone have a plan?" Harry asked.

"No," Mustaphar said, "we're not going by it. I will buy you time. We've wasted too much already. The city is falling. The defence is broken. When I give the signal, run."

Then he stepped out from the alcove. His staff clicked over the stones. His robes billowed around him. He lifted up the grey bracelet placed by the guards gleamed on his wrist in the firelight.

"A brave man," Tom murmured, "and like all brave men, a fool. When the thing rips his head off we run."

"Couldn't you hit it with a killing curse?" Arabella whispered.

"Daemons are beings of spirit. On the whole they are just as vulnerable to the curse as any living thing. Greater daemons, though, they seal away their spirits in the hidden corners of mortal realms. The curse cannot reach them. If you want to defeat a greater daemon's form you need to rip their flesh apart," Harry explained grimly. "That can take an army. The other option is to close the way to whichever of the nine hells they came from. That weakens them. For one to be here, it doesn't bode well."

The daemon had noticed Mustaphar and it turned its baleful yellow eyes to regard him." A mortal comes to face me alone?" It asked, and Arabella gasped, its voice was the soft sighing of golden flutes. "Tell me your name child of man, so that I may recall it when I think of your death."

Mustaphar laughed, letting it die away into a chuckle before replying, "Do you take me for a babe-in-arms to ask me such a question? I will not give my name than you would give your own." He held one hand behind his back, fingers counting down for them to see.

The daemon shook its head, "I see the very essence of your being wanderer. I too have walked the paths you have travelled. Give me but your use-name so that I may know you. In exchange I will grant you a swift death before I devour your heart."

"A tempting bargain," Mustaphar said, politely, "and everyone loves a bargain ..." His fingers dropped and his hand rose to grip his staff, "but sadly, I must refuse. _Lector Ra_!" White light flared from the staff, binding the daemon in chains of white fire which burnt with the scent of roses. "Run! I cannot hold it for long."

They ran, save for Tom who glided a few feet above the ground, clambering over the remnants of the wall. Then they were outside the walls and the cold air of the night hit them. Harry looked back to see the small figure silhouetted against the fires. His arm was raised as a terrible, dark shadow snapped the bands of magic which held it, and reared over him.

* * *

"How are we actually going to stop Ambrose when we get to him?" Harry asked as they cut across the field.

"He must have opened a daemongate. A large one at that, to have let through a greater daemon, or this many daemons come to that. The sacrifice must have been huge. Presumably the blood of his captives," Tom observed contemplatively, " such gates are effectively portals …"

"So they would need a binding agent of some kind. If we can offer that instead of an equal sacrifice we should be able to close it," Arabella finished triumphantly. She was limping heavily now and blood trickled down her leg.

Wet grasses swayed in a breeze so gentle that the mists barely moved. Tom held up a hand as he caught the sound of the tramp of feet and they crouched low in silence. The dark shapes of a dozen men and women crept by them towards the city, wands drawn.

"Why the blazes are we doing this? He's got an army, why does he need us to risk our necks take a stupid bloody tower. The man's lost it ..." one complained in a West Country accent.

Someone shushed him and the group passed them by. They moved onwards nerves jumping at the slightest noise. They approached the rocky outcrop slowly, creeping round behind it. The blood red tear in reality was all too visible now. Fires blazed around it in strange, unknown colours. The cliff was perhaps thirty feet high, with plenty of handholds. In the dark though it might have been a hundred feet and sheer. However, bit by bit Harry and Arabella scaled it in silence. Tom glided silently through the air above them. Arabella brought up the rear. She paused to rest every now and then on the ledges, gradually falling behind as Tom and Harry continued on towards the summit. The cultists were few now, and widely spaced. They stood behind lines drawn in sand which the daemons did not cross.

Harry crouched at the rock lip while Tom hovered calmly beside him carefully picking his first target, levelling his wand at the cultist's back. There were half a dozen of them, including Ambrose and Richard.

"Thorbecombe is mine," Tom breathed, "do as you wish with the others. _Avada Kedava_!" The green bolt of light struck the cultist before she had a chance to turn and she crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut. A hex from Harry sent another flying over the edge of the cliff.

Tom swept forwards. Bright arterial blood sprayed from a third with a slash of his wand and then he was face to face with Richard. He landed gracefully. His boots touched down without a sound. Behind them Harry's wand flashed as he countered a belated attack. Ambrose ignored them concentrating upon the scene unfolding a mile away as fire began to sweep over the city.

"Thorbecombe ..." Tom purred. "Delightful to see you again. I hope Kitty gave you my regards."

Richard ignored the jibe, circling slowly. His eyes scanned for any hint of weakness. Tom's smile, became brittle. "I hope she lived just long enough to say goodbye; for you to see the light die in her eyes. It would be terrible to think that she died alone and afraid without friends or hope as the fire consumed her …"

Richard struck, his wand whipped round. Dust and pebbled rocketed towards Tom.

The older wizard twisted his wand in a loop. " _Ventus_!" The wind roared, halting the stones in mid-flight, dropping them to the ground. Tom sliced two linked triangles in the air. For an instant they hovered there, glowing, before a lance of fire blasted over the plateau.

Richard drew his wand down, " _Aguamenti_!" Water met fire and steam exploded outwards in great plumes.

The last cultist's body fell with a thump and Harry marched on to confront Ambrose.

Tom changed tactics, steam froze, crystallising in tiny, deadly shards slicing through the air. The auror dived to one side. With a flick of his wand a slab of stone rose, weathering the hail of ice. Tom stabbed forwards, power crackling through the wand. Lightning exploded outwards in a blinding flash, shattering the rock. Richard flung up a shield letting the shards bounce away.

Tom snarled, advancing, " _Avada kedava_!" The green light flashed out and Richard rolled aside, landing on a patch of grass. Tom laughed, the tone flat and cold. With a flick of his wand the grass writhed, bright, green serpents transfigured from the short blades.

Richard leapt backwards, eyes wide as he conjured fire, roasting the coiling snakes as they reared to strike.

* * *

Harry advanced towards Ambrose, the man's back was turned. For an instant he considered offering him the chance to surrender. Then with the short slice of the stunning charm a silent red dart of light zipped forward. At the last second Ambrose stepped aside, turning in the same movement to face Harry. His face was pale, dried blood crusted his cheeks and the front of his robe. His hair was wild and his eyes glinted like chips of obsidian. He tilted his head from side to side, regarding him coldly.

"Who are you? The man who was me remembers your face. You caused him great pain," Ambrose's body said, there was a certain frozen clarity to its words.

Harry looked at him for a second before making a decision. " _Fuego_!" Yellow flames leapt forwards. Ambrose did not even attempt to move aside. They engulfed him, running over his flesh. He smiled and walked through the flames.

"I have walked among the fires of the Palace of Pandemonium. No flame may harm me," it said.

Harry cut short the stream of fire and raised his wand to strike again. Ambrose moved in a blur his hand rose and a blast of hot, sulphurous air flung Harry to the ground. He groaned, rolling to one side as Ambrose's fist smashed into the stone. It melted under his knuckles.

" _Venare_!" A golden line of light sliced from Harry's wand and Ambrose leapt backwards, bending out of the way. "So you're still vulnerable. That's good to know," Harry said, picking himself up. His coat flapped slightly in the breeze. "Now, do you know how to play?"

* * *

Tom flicked his wand, the disarming charm caught Richard unawares as he incinerated the final snake. The wand was ripped from his grip, only to fall back as the charm failed, thwarted by a simple leather strap binding it to Richard's wrist. He caught it and swiped his wand through the air in one smooth motion, slivers of bone erupted from the serpents bodies.

Tom smiled, he let the transfiguration fall, and pieces of grass drifted earthwards. He thrust his wand forward smashing the ground by Richard's feet. The auror staggered backwards. A purple streak of fire slashed the air, striking Richard on the arm and he cried out in agony as he was knock to the ground.

Tom advanced, his lip curling. Richard struggled to rise, but Tom reached him and knocked him down again with a casual blow. He ripped the wand from the band around the auror's wrist and snapped it in two. "Pathetic. Is this the best the auror's have? I have known warriors who could have torn you apart. _Crucio_!"

Richard writhed, screaming under the spell as Tom stared down at him, eyes devoid of compassion. After half a minute he let the spell fall and prodded Richard's twitching body with his boot.

"Get up. Face your death like a man," Tom ordered, turning to step away.

The blast of the impedimenta jinx was weak, but it knocked Tom down onto his hands and knees. Richard's leg kicked out, knocking Tom's wand away. The auror stood, battered and bloody, but with a fresh wand in his hand. "You didn't think I would fail to carry a spare wand a second time did you?"

A flick of the wand and Tom was tossed onto his back with a groan. Richard swallowed, gathering his strength for the killing blow. Tom's eyes flicked under Richard's arm. The auror span around, but too late. The white, sizzling bolt of a piercing curse tore through his chest. He stood swaying for a moment before toppling forwards. Dead.

Arabella stood, white faced and shaking, "I … I killed him."

Tom stood up, gingerly, picking up his own wand. "Yes. I appear to owe you a debt of thanks. I was wondering when you would arrive."

"The climb took me a little longer than I'd expected. I didn't see any point in interfering when you were winning. Why? Why did I do that? I could have stunned him." She shivered, unable to tear her wide eyes away from the body.

"True. Now shall we proceed to the portal? It looks fascinating," Tom said before striding away.

"What about Harry?" Arabella asked. "Shouldn't we help him?"

"He will be fine," Tom promised. "He is probably enjoying it. Come on." A little way down the hill Harry yelped as Ambrose knocked him flying with a gentle backhanded swipe.

Arabella limped after Tom. The climb had torn her wound and blood was running freely again as she walked down the hill to the gateway.

* * *

Harry drew his wand in a swift circle, " _Clypeus._ " Ambrose's attack rang against the lime green shield as if he had struck a bell and Harry staggered backwards. Every limb was aching, his hands were scratched and torn and a shard of rock had cut a thin line across his forehead. "You're going to lose, there are no more daemons appearing. Your followers are being cut down ..." Harry said, " _Pylath_!" A set of conjured darts shot towards Ambrose.

Ambrose raised his hand and wood sprung from the air. The shield caught the darts in mid-flight before melting away. He laughed, a mocking, hollow sound, "We have crossed the void between worlds. Space means little now that the city walls have fallen. They can and will be anywhere and everywhere within the walls. We shall crack the citadel like an egg and make the streets run red with blood. The others are nothing. As for you, you do not have the blood to close the gate." He struck out and snaking coil of darkness lashed out towards Harry.

" _Schemare_!" The air shimmered and Ambrose recoiled as his spell rebounded.

* * *

"These are runes for sacrifice. Something must be willingly given to control the gate," Arabella said, stepping closer to examine the archway.

Tom licked the pillar of the arch before spitting, "Blood magic. Many died to open this gate. Blood magic opened it, blood magic will close it. I saw something like this before, a doorway to death they said. You can read the runes?"

"I _am_ a professional ward builder. It might be possible to change where this leads to … but I don't know how," she sighed, "I don't know how to unravel this. It seems to be bound to him."

"Him or his blood?" Tom asked.

"His blood, I think," she said squinting at the runes in the frozen blood of the arch. Then without warning Tom knelt and wiped his hand over her bleeding leg, scooping away congealing blood. He flung it into the gateway with a smooth motion. The veil heaved and shivered. He drew his wand over his left hand, slicing the skin and threw the glistening droplets of blood into the portal. Nothing happened. "Interesting. It certainly appears to respond to you."

"It's too crude to control though. I'd need to willingly sacrifice myself to it to close it …" she paled. "There isn't another option is there?"

"No," Tom said, his eyes flicking to Harry, where he stood, battling at the foot of the hill now, and then back to her.

"I, I don't want to … couldn't we … isn't there ..."

Tom stepped up, close behind her, his voice soothing, his breath ghosting over her ear, "Are you going to let them all die? Are you willing to let that happen?"

She hesitated and he placed his hand on her head, forcing her to look at the burning city. She shivered, her lip trembling before taking a deep breath, "Give me a moment … please, I'll do it, but …"

He pushed her back gently and she stumbled, head forwards into the gateway.

* * *

Harry flung himself sideways as Ambrose lashed out. Furious, pulsing power smashed the rocks where Harry had been standing moments before. He was panting, slowly but surely the daemon's persistence was wearing him down. He did not have the creature's unnatural resilience. Ambrose stalked towards him, grinning madly.

"Oh little mortal child, don't run from me …"

The air hammered at them, tossing them like rag dolls. The breath was squeezed from Harry's lungs. Ambrose screamed, shadows were curling from his flesh. The earth beneath them bucked like a wild horse. Ambrose clawed at his throat, fingers coming away sticky and red, and then he stopped moving.

Harry lay on the ground, panting. A glance up the hill confirmed his suspicion, the gate was gone. One half shattered pillar of red ice remained. He closed his eyes. When he opened them Tom was standing over him. A look somewhere between possessiveness, fury and concern flickered over his angular face. It fell away as he noticed Harry had opened his eyes and he turned to regard Ambrose's body. There was the faintest rise and fall to the man's chest. Blood slowly pooled around his head.

Tom levelled his wand at the prone man and spoke two words. They were the final sound Ambrose ever heard. There was a flash of green light and the movement ceased forever. "What a bore."

Harry levered himself to his knees. "Where's Arabella?"

Tom paused, something flitted across his face too fast for Harry to recognise it. "She closed the portal. She died a hero's death."


	24. Fading Shadows

**Fading Shadows**

_The 29th of March_

The hall was empty, long rows of candles burnt for the unnumbered fallen. The candlesticks, made from black iron, stood like strange spears raised in salute. At the far end stood Dr Merkel, dressed in the crimson mourning robes of the city. His head was bowed, hands clasped before him as if in prayer.

Tom and Harry advanced down the hall between the slowly burning flames. When the last candle burnt down to nothing the mourning would be over. Tom dressed in black, recognisably the colour of English mourners and therefore forgivable. Harry was, for once, dressed in formal, blood red robes. The high, stiff collar itched around his neck.

There should have been music, cheers or sobs. Yet, the only sound was that of their footsteps on the cold flagstones. Their passage made the candles flicker. A long dark cloak, clasped at the neck with silver billowing behind Tom; firelight danced in his eyes as he walked, head held high. Harry was pale and withdrawn, eyes downcast.

They stopped before the dais. Merkel descended holding in his hands two, slim, silver rings and two wreaths of ivy. "This day in the presence of all gathered here; with the blessing of the lady of this great city I present you with the ancient freedoms of the High City of Stuttgart, and all the rights and privileges of a warlock of this city. May all your deeds bring honour to you, the city and her royal highness," Merkel intoned, voice grave and quiet.

They held out their hands and he passed the rings to them. Then he set the wreaths upon their heads. His duty discharged Merkel left the hall.

"Do you think that was a calculated insult?" Tom asked contemplatively. "A squib dispensing honour to us?"

"It shouldn't be like this," Harry muttered, sitting down on the steps of the dais. "They should be honouring her, not giving us these tokens."

"I must admit I hoped for more of a reward. I hear they have some wonderful pieces of enchanted weaponry," Tom said, turning over the ring in his hand, studying it. "I am not entirely sure this has any power at all. There aren't even tracking charms on it."

"Are you incapable of emotion? Look around here, how many candles are there? A thousand? Two thousand? Three thousand? More? Each one a life, snuffed out," Harry said, his voice rising, words echoing in the still air. He pushed his head into his hands.

Tom frowned, "What good would it do? They are gone. No magic can bring back the dead Harry, not even mine, not once they are truly gone from this world. Though …"

"Though what?"

"They say that there is a passage between Anfwn and the realms of the dead. Country wizards in my youth were often unclear as to whether someone was dead or wandering in the kingdoms beyond the rain," Tom said speculatively. "Still the paths there are mostly sealed now."

"Mostly?" Harry asked. From somewhere in the windowless room a breeze gusted, making the flames flicker.

"I am sure there are one or two left. Arabella said the daemongate's destination could be altered, and the hells are said to border Phaerie. With the right knowledge anything is possible," Tom smiled, "well almost anything."

"You're up to something Tom, I can smell it," Harry mumbled. "Gods I should be better at this, I'm a hundred and seventy years old!"

"You never have overcome this childish attachment to people have you?" Tom asked. "I'm going for a walk. If you manage to pull yourself out of the slough of despond you are welcome to join me."

Harry nodded. Tom was being almost kind. He was undoubtedly up to something.

* * *

Voldemort walked alone down from the citadel through the town. Funeral pyres burnt at every corner. Smoke rose from them curling upwards to mix with the thick, steel grey clouds. The city was left in a faded gloaming. He swept among the mourners, the homeless, the repairers and those who had lost their minds in the siege. He looked like the embodiment of death: cold, pale and grim.

Traditionally the citizens of Stuttgart met death joyfully. There were dances. The wake of a great personage might well be the social event of the year. The saying 'out of death comes life' was more than a poetic turn of phrase: nine months after the last prince's funeral the midwives had been run off their feet. A funeral was a celebration of life, that of the mourners and the mourned. This time though there was no dancing, no singing. The usual, masked figures were nowhere to be seen. The battle had been won, but the city felt broken. The citizens were strangers in a strange land within their own city.

Corpses of daemons which had possessed the power to manifest an enduring physical form were being carried to pits where enchanted flames devoured their flesh. Voldemort swept down, ignoring all of this, his mind was fixed on one question. He passed through arched tunnels into squares where the flame-gutted remnants of ancient stone houses tottered. He smiled quietly as he recognised the blackened bulk of an oak tree which towered over a square where magic had carved gouges into the cobbles and walls.

At last he arrived at his destination: the breach in the walls. There were only two guards, huddled in their sandy cloaks (the edges of which were dyed a deep, solemn red), guarding it. A small bluebell fire burnt between them. It shed twisting shadows which danced in the desolate grey light of that day. Voldemort wondered if the weather and light were responding to the city's mood or if it were only coincidental.

"Good afternoon," he said stepping closer to them, pulling a sympathetic expression.

One of the guards, a middle aged man whose greying hair just emerged from beneath the peaked helmet nodded at him. There were dark circles around the man's eyes and his hands shook. They clasped around a small, toy rabbit. Voldemort paused, trying to understand why a grown man would be holding such a thing before understanding struck.

"I am sorry for your loss. I was wondering if you could help me," he began again.

"Maybe," the guard said, not looking away from the fire.

"I am looking for … for a friend. I think he fell not far from here. Would you know?"

"Might do," was the short reply.

The other guard sighed. She was a tall woman with rich chestnut hair which hung in greasy, unwashed knots over the back of her cloak, "Sorry. He's taking it hard. I loaded the bodies on to the fire. What'd your friend look like?"

"Dark skinned, about one-hundred and seventy-five centimetres tall, old fashioned brown robes. He might have had a staff with him …" Voldemort said trying to imitate Harry's concern for others.

The woman shook her head. "Not that I saw. It was pretty hard to piece together a whole person from most of the people here, but I cannot remember anything that might have been part of ..."

"Wrist," the male muttered.

She grimaced. Shifting to wrap the cloak tighter around her shoulders. "There _was_ a piece of hand in one daemon's mouth, or what was left of it, it might have belonged to your friend."

"What was left of the hand?" Tom asked, confused by the syntax.

"Of the daemon. It was a big bugger, but something had blown its head to pieces from the inside out." She shuddered. "A bit of a hand was still intact between the jaws as if it had been killed while taking a bite."

Voldemort nodded slowly. "Thank you. My friend might have gone out with style then. That is something."

She cast a disgusted look at him and turned away. She closed her eyes and crouched over the flames. Ashes from the burnt houses fell around them like pale, grey snowflakes. Voldemort walked away, wondering how many ghosts would come from this.

He wrapped his own cloak around him. He peered into the shadows and dark, cracked windows as he wandered. He paused, running his hand over the rough stones of a house with a cracked door which hung from its hinges. He let the magic of a home run over him. It was strange, like listening to the echoes of laughter, or watching a mother singing lullabies to a child. Yet it was broken. The notes of the lullaby were out of tune; the laughter swam from joyful to hysterical and back again. The threshold's magic was weak, barely clinging on to life. It would be terribly easy for the city to become plagued with angry revenants after this. A gentle push here and there and it would become a city of the dead. Malfoy had lost the battle, but he had achieved his objective: Stuttgart was no longer a threat.

Voldemort pursed his lips, feeding a little of his own magic into the house. He drew out the pain and heartbreak like poison from a wound, letting it merge into his own. Malfoy was going to regret crossing wands with him, he had gone too far. First driving him into this, then loosing goblins on his trail and now this; Malfoy would pay.

A great silvery stag, six foot tall at the shoulder, bounded through the wall beside him. It shook its antlers and spoke in Harry's voice. "Tom. Council called. French President present. You are expected. Promised protection. Come to citadel. Please."

Voldemort hesitated for a moment and then set off back up the hill towards the towering bulk of the citadel.

* * *

The council chamber was a long oval. A polished mahogany table stood in the centre surrounded by chairs and a few gilded mirrors. The walls of the chamber were enchanted. They displayed the city, spread out as if from a high turret. The chamber itself though was set deep into the hill of the citadel. A map of Europe was spread over the table. Tiny models represented the various armies, moving a little occasionally. The red forces of Britain were more than half way across France: a host of over a thousand wizards and witches camped in a small wooded valley. The French armies were scattered. One of three small forces was pinned down on the Franco-German border menaced by a goblin warhost, a second shadowed the English force and the third was trailing up from the Spanish frontier.

Harry was sitting to one side of the table as Tom came in and sat beside him. "Do they have any biscuits?" Tom asked by way of greeting. Harry shook his head. Tom glanced at the table. "That does not look good. The German princes are not participating?" He asked noting the lack of troops displayed in the princedoms. Harry shook his head.

There was a babble of voices by the door and the Princess, accompanied by two advisers strode in. The French President, a man with close cut black hair, greying at the temples, followed her. A few of the mirrors' reflections shifted: one showed a woman sitting at a large, impressive desk; another a man with a neat, black beard reclining in a dark, green, leather chair.

The Princess tapped her wand on the table, "Welcome ladies and gentlemen. You have been invited here to discuss the British threat. If you are not willing to unite against this threat then I must ask that you leave now."

There was an awkward silence before, with a nod, the Marshal of the United Peoples of Scandinavia left her mirror. The glass became dark joining Italy, Spain and Lombardy which were already black and still. As the potential list of allies left the French President's expression crumpled. The princess watched unmoved. She sat, gesturing to the French President.

He stood and it was as if he had put on a fresh personality, one to which nerves, fear and indecision were foreign concepts. "Madames et messieurs, it is with a heavy heart that I meet with you today. Some would say that I must beg your aid. As you all are painfully aware France's forces have been shattered by this ruthless invasion; however, I do not beg, I _demand_. None of you are naïve enough to believe Malfoy will stop with the conquest and subjugation of France. Stuttgart has already witnessed his perfidiousness. For the moment we are slowing his advance, but it will not last. Then you will each have to stand before him and _his_ allies."

"You are, as always, persuasive Monsieur Chenault. However, I fear you have misinterpreted our aims in calling this meeting," the Princess said calmly. "Stuttgart does not accuse Britain of the recent terrorist attack by the rebels under the command of Ambrose Fairechild. Your own mistakes left France open to Malfoy's attack. My fellow princes and I feel that we are too close to his forces and too weak to confront him directly …"

"If you supported us we could launch a two pronged assault. Trap Malfoy's forces where they are in France while we take Britain itself! He must give ground …" Chenault interrupted, thumping his fist on the table.

A flash of irritation flickered over the Princess's face, "We would be mad to attempt anything of the sort. The wards you built to hold the British have been reversed. To strike against them would require more power or planning than we can muster in time. If we are to win this war we must look for another path."

The French President snorted, but held his piece as a man with a neat black beard in one of the mirrors spoke, "A certain influential member of Malfoy's own government has offered us aid and information. She has passed this to us along with certain assurances of her good faith. Malfoy has, it seems been foolish enough to leave the safety of Britain and taken the field personally. He is with his army in eastern France. If we support her claim to rule Britain she will help us. With the passwords for the wards we might be able to send a small team to …"

"No. The answer is no," Tom interrupted. "You invited us for this. Do you expect me to believe in this little play?"

"Who is this _Englishman_?" The French President asked making it clear he believed the word might as well be "scum".

"I believe his birthname is Tom Marvolo Riddle. You know him better as Lord Voldemort," the princess said quietly. A faint hint of pleasure glinted in her eyes at the horrified look on the President's face. He looked as if he had realised that the devil himself was sitting across the table from him.

"You, you allowed _him_ here?" He managed to gasp out at last.

"Why ever not? He has a vested interest in seeing Malfoy defeated. We all know he is _exceptionally_ good at leaving death and mayhem in his wake," she said.

"I will not tolerate his presence! Lock him up immediately!" Chenault ordered, a vein pulsing in his neck.

Tom smiled icily. His wand slid into his hand as he stared calmly at the President. The shorter man held it for a moment before glancing away, pale. Tom spoke softly, "Why don't we all calm down? Ma'am, with all due respect what in the name of Merlin makes you believe I would be prepared to do this?"

"Three things, Herr Riddle: firstly if you do you will be granted on international pardon for your crimes, ratified by _every_ ally the Princes of Germany possess," she cast a glance at the President, "which will be agreed to. Secondly, your compatriot, Herr Potter intends to undertake this mission, and thirdly Malfoy issued a bounty of 10,000 galleons on your head yesterday. If you do not kill him soon every bounty hunter from the mountains of Cathay to the American plains will be after you."

"Potter's decisions are no concern of mine. As to the pardon, I hardly see how that matters; no force in this world can hold me. As to the bounty … do none of you think this is too convenient?

"Malfoy is in France. _Someone_ is prepared to let down the defences. Malfoy moves from court to action at the critical moment, but leaves himself vulnerable? You are being played for fools," Tom said, his lip curling.

The man with the neat beard spoke up, "Consider this: if the unofficial version of events, that Malfoy had a hand in the attack upon Stuttgart, is correct is it not possible that he was simply seeking to kill two birds with one stone. He sent you there just before hand of course. Might this be simply his next option? Now if we harbour you we give him _casus belli._ Herr Riddle, if you cooperate you will be handsomely rewarded, as you choose: whether it be with knowledge, or gold. Alternatively we will hand you over to him as a gesture of good faith."

Tom looked about him weighing the matter up, "I have conditions."

"Name them," the Princess said. "Monsieur le President, you will agree." It was not a question.

"I want free choice of three of the magical artefacts possessed by your states collectively. I will want a castle near the Alps for any research, complete legal immunity and an annual stipend of five thousand galleons," he said, after a moment's thought.

"If you kill Draco Malfoy it is yours. The immunity will only cover your past crimes. You are not above the law," the Princess said coolly.

"Finally, before I set about this task I want complete access to all your records on stable portals and how one may manipulate them," Tom added.

A few eyebrows went up. The President forgot to look horrified and aggrieved. The Princess recovered herself first, "Agreed."

The meeting dragged on covering a number of alternative strategies; the exact power structure of the alliance; the role each party would play; Malfoy's most likely next move, and so on and so forth. Tom and Harry were dismissed relatively early on, now that their part had been played. They walked back to their apartments in silence.

At the door Tom remarked, "I have rarely seen such a poor display of acting. For a politician that was abysmal. He knew what was going to happen from the start. They all did. Malfoy may have put a price on our heads, but I would wager that they and their friend intend to put us out of the picture just as thoroughly."

"You agreed quickly," Harry said.

"What could the benefit be in objecting? They will watch us less closely for it. Also there _are_ certain advantages. I have a plan, boy, a plan which I need you to help me with," he pushed open the door to the chamber. "First though I have a use for that bird."

The room was almost unchanged, despite the siege. Now though there were only two doors leading to the apartments. Cor sat hunched on the back of a chair, her head under her wing. The window was open, the wind stirred the pages of a book which lay spine down on the dusk. The smell of wood smoke and roses hung in the air.

* * *

The night was cold. Without the light of the moon the forest was almost impenetrably dark. Somewhere between the trees a small animal gave out a cry of fear and alarm and fell silent. The wind stole gently over leaves and twigs tugging on them as if they were crude wind-chimes. The wood smelled of moist, wet earth and loam. There was a sound, as if a branch had been snapped in two, and two men stepped from the air. After a cautious glance around they left the edge of the trees. They strode up the shallow curve of a hillock and into a clearing where starlit grass was surrounded by the thick black shadows of the trees. One was dressed in black, his movements were silent and his hand was wrapped around a pale wand. The younger man was dressed in black trousers and a white shirt beneath a long, brown coat, worn at the cuffs and hem. This man had not bothered to draw his wand and waited with his hands tucked into his pockets. A rook perched on his shoulder.

"The witching hour, while wonderfully symbolic, is an extremely anti-social time of night. Entirely unsuitable for a nice little chit-chat," said Tom conversationally. "Wouldn't you say?"

"Sure," Harry agreed, turning to look into the shadows of the woods.

"What about you, Cor? Nothing to say in defence of your lord?" Tom asked, "No little pearl of wisdom from you? Perhaps you ought to flap off and let him know that we are here."

"He will come," she croaked, shuffling on Harry's shoulder. He absentmindedly stroked her feathers.

Tom fell silent and began to pace. His boots left dark marks on the soft, short grass as he paced backwards and forwards.

"Something wrong?" Harry asked, breaking Tom's stride as he turned back for the umpteenth time to retread the same small circle.

"Harry, dear boy," Tom began before breaking off again. Harry wondered idly how the words could sound quite so much like the promise of imminent death. "Harry, I am not confident that this plan will work. It relies upon too many variables. If a single link in the chain breaks we are lost. Utterly lost."

"Replan."

"Impossible. There is too little time, too many enemies. We need to _act_ before they decide to destroy us rather than merely throwing us towards a rogue dragon either it or we will do the job for them," Tom snapped. "I need an insurance plan. Compulsion charms perhaps? _Confundus_ charms? Possession? They might be resisted by a strong willed witch or wizard, at least enough to doom the plan. Maybe if they were subtle enough, just enough to plant an idea … We need to pull this off. We could find a place like your village, hide away for a time."

"Yes."

Tom's lips twitched. "Come on Potter, you are letting me down. Where's that spirit of daring-do. Daring-don't-if-daring-bothers-at-all seems set into your every limb … it's demoralising. After this is over we can hunt down the resurrection stone. You can chat with her, chat with them all, if you so wish," he suggested almost kindly.

"Legend," Harry said with a snort.

"What are we but the things that dreams are made of? There are a number of reputable accounts concerning the history of the Deathly Hallows," Tom argued airily, "Harry, we were raised in the muggle world. Our fundamental notions of probability are _still_ distorted. Wizards, trueborn wizards, have an instinctual knowledge that their world turns on the laws of belief and hope. There is a great deal of both in the second Hallow."

"Bollocks," Harry said, though not particularly viciously. "Anyway, I can't even remember their symbol."

"We'll look it up then."

The trees hummed, their branches twisting and stirring. The roots twisted, writhing over mouldering stones. Faint starlight gleamed through the intertwining leaves. A swarm of moths fluttered through the trees. They whipped around them, grey, silky wings beating the air. The Erlking stepped from the trees. His body was wrapped in shadows and shot through with starlight.

"Ah, good evening," Tom said, with the slightest nod of respect.

_Greetings_ , Erlking replied, his voice the soft beating of rain on leaves. _What may be done for you fine gentlemen?_

"We need your help getting somewhere. I think you might find it in your interests to help us," Tom began.

Harry interrupted, "We need to kill a king."


	25. Checkmate

**Checkmate**

_April 1st_

The world twisted around them. Roots wound over their flesh and green light surrounded them as if they were encircled by a leafy curtain. It was like lying back in a river. A gentle current bore them onwards, slowly gaining speed as it pulled them downwards into the unknown places of the world. They left the green light behind and swept through caverns measureless to man. They passed ancient towering trees whose skeletal branches hung motionless beneath pale skies that never were.

For a moment Harry thought he saw men, women and children sitting in vast subterranean lands before realising they were nothing more than the swellings and curves of trees. They hung in a shifting net of light. For an instant he saw beyond: a great ash, roots and branches stretching outwards binding everything together as one. It blazed across the darkness and Harry closed his eyes unable to bear the sight, weeping as he was swept onwards.

They appeared with a soft ripple of air. Old, dead leaves swirling upwards from their feet. Harry stumbled. The brittle roots wrapped around his arms crumbled into dust. He leant against a tree, heaving and retching. He slowly gathered himself. Tom turned, dusting himself down, "Thank you Erlking. I trust that now all debts are paid."

There was a soft chuckle. Something shifted in the darkness of the trees and he was gone. Tom breathed out, relaxing marginally. They were standing at the top of a slope, not more than twenty feet from a tarmac covered road which ran over a long, grey, stone bridge. The bridge's arches spread across a dark, shallow river. The stones were dappled in lichen.

"Well, this is a pleasant spot," Tom said, picking up a stone and throwing it towards the road. The air fizzed and buzzed and the stone burst into flames before vanishing. The air rippled, soft blue lines of light shimmered before fading back into nothing once more. "Down the hill then. I would put on that invisibility cloak if I were you. You will not fit in, I wager," he added critically, casting a glance at Harry.

Harry slung the invisibility cloak over his shoulders. He fumbled with the hood for a moment before pulling it over his head, followed by the thin gauze veil which fell down to mask his face. He vanished, entirely invisible. Tom flicked his wand and his robes shifted hue from black through shades of purple before fading into scarlet. A rampant, golden dragon lay emblazoned on his chest. "While I admit it won't be remembered as the fashion statement of the year I think this does not entirely fail to meet my requirements."

There was no reply from the Boy, again. With a small sigh Tom began to pick his was down over the rocks, avoiding the clumps of thin, wiry grass which stuck out from the rocks. Trees overhung the pathways. Branches rattled as they shivered in the wind. Downstream lights gleamed between the trees, unmoving silver globes. A car buzzed by on the road, yellow lights fading away into the night again.

Tom fished inside his robes checking that his notes were still safely stored away and unnoticeable to others before lightly hopping down the rocks. They slipped away from the moss and dead leaves which were piled into the cracks and crevices. Water tumbled, white and foaming over a spur of rock. It curled round before pouring into the pool it had carved. Trees stretched up the bank, roots intertwined over the rocks.

They made their way downstream as the river lapped the rocks beside them, eddies and swirls flicked spray over the granite. Tom tucked himself beneath a wall of regular, clean cut stones which formed a slowly decaying wall. A round dry drain opened in its centre, whilst ferns clung to the cracks. He waited for a few moments, checking for any sign of watchmen. There was nothing and he moved onwards, drifting silently through the night.

A pylon crossed overhead. Wires filled the air with a faint buzz. Tom cast a handful of spells to find any traps or defences which the Erlking had not whisked them past. There was nothing, though the spellwork made the buzzing from the wires jump in fits and starts. Tom stepped out from beneath the wall and slipped onwards through the night.

In the east the faint glimmer of dawn ran over the treetops. Gentle golden light touched the young leaves and branches, gilding them. They moved faster, following narrow stone steps carved into the gorge edge. They passed occasional, wide, flat rocks which stuck out from the cliff edge like ancient, primitive balconies. Tom paused holding up his hand as the sound of footsteps reached them from below. He half turned but thought better of it and retreated to one of the long, flat rocks before standing his ground, trying to look as nonchalant as possible.

Two red robed soldiers rounded the cliff path. Thick brown leather, scored with tiny runes were visible beneath the fall of the clothes. They came to a sudden halt, aiming their wands at Tom's chest. He spread his arms wide in a placating gesture and leaned back against the rock wall.

"Who goes there?" The older of the two asked. He was grizzled, his hair a close cropped mix of salt and pepper. His arm bore two vertical stripes, the mark of a veteran solider.

"Thaddeus Sholto," Tom said with a curt nod, "captain in the third. Who would you be soldier?"

The veteran did not lower his wand, "Show me your papers. Now!"

Tom carefully, slowly began to reach inside his robe. There was a flicker of movement and simultaneously a stunner hit the younger warrior dead between the eyes whilst a branch was brought down on the elder's wrist from the thin air, knocking his wand out of his hand. It tumbled down to the river, bouncing over the rocks. The branch lurched upwards. It hit the man a glancing blow on the forehead, forcing him to his knees. Harry whirled, invisibility cloak lifting away for a moment as he vaulted over the man, aiming his wand at the back of his head.

"No sudden moves or we drop you and your friend into the river," he breathed softly. The soldier froze. "Now, we have a few questions for you."

"Which way to Malfoy's tent?" Tom asked.

"Which Malfoy?" The soldier asked tensely.

"How many are there? Draco Malfoy of course," Tom snapped.

"Centre of the camp. You can't miss his pavilion: green and silver. Only bloody one that colour," the soldier replied, knotting his fingers behind his head. 'Livia Malfoy's tent is nearby, pure silver.'

"Of course it is," Tom sighed, "what a prat."

"Who are you? Who are you working for? The French? The Germans?" The soldier asked, curiously, looking up at Tom.

"Think of me as a private, albeit interested party," Tom drawled. "Now speak true, what defences are there?"

The soldier looked up at him and shook his head. The sun was beginning to peak over the treetops. The curve of the red orb slowly mounted into the sky, dawn's fingers stretching upwards. "I don't know anything about that."

Tom fingered his wand, considering, " _Silencio. Crucio._ " Baleful red light wrapped around the man as he writhed in silent agony. Harry's visible wand arm twitched, but without any other objection Tom continued. Eventually he let the spell fall. The soldier lay, curled up on the rocks. Silent sobs wracked his body. Tom bound his hands and legs while he waited. With a flick of his wand he raised him so that he was bound against the rock face, arms spread as if crucified. Another minute passed and Tom released the silencing charm.

"Now are you prepared to cooperate?" He asked coolly. He raised the man's head with one finger gazing into his eyes. The man met his gaze and Tom dove into his mind. He rifled through the soldier's thoughts. He plunged through the defences shattered by the _cruciatus_ and rode the swell of memories. He slipped past one scene of pitching camp after another, searching for the wards and defences. He felt the man's horror, shame and revulsion as he scanned his most private memories and moments. After a minute he slipped back out again. "Well, is there anything you would like to add?"

The soldier let out a small choking noise, apparently unable to speak. Tom rolled his eyes, "Pathetic."

" _Avada kedavra,_ " Harry said quietly, and the man's body went limp against the bonds.

"What did you do that for?" Tom asked, head whipping round to look at Harry in anger.

"He wasn't going to give us anything more. You left him unable to even speak," Harry said wearily. "Come on, we're wasting time."

Tom turned to stride down the steps, hurrying onwards towards the main camp which lay between the trees, on either bank of the river. The roots formed a causeway of intertwining roots which stretched from bank to bank. The wooden bridge was almost level, roots plaited together in such a way that they gave an even platform. The land around the river had been stretched, levelled so that a host of tents, pavilions and even small watchtowers could be erected. In the faint light of the dawn they could see the occasional figure patrolling through the tents.

"Why don't you just disillusion yourself?" Harry asked quietly, as they paused beside the first of the tents. Tom's robes blending in to its red cloth.

"If I were them I would have set alarms against such charms. Your cloak is immune to detection, but I suspect that other enchantments of concealment would have had them down upon our heads like an bull erumpent in mating season," Tom answered in a whisper, "now, is the coast clear?"

There was a soft rustle of cloth as Harry moved out around the tent. The only sign of his passage were the slight depressions in the dewy grass. White hawthorn blossoms drifted down from the trees, scattering themselves over the tents and the grass.

"Yes."

They moved swiftly, darting from the cover of one tent to another. They made their way towards the centre of the camp. A great pavilion stretched above the others, two stories in height, it was a deep emerald green with a great black dragon emblazoned upon one side, a silver serpent upon the other. Beneath the figures ran the motto " _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper"._ Tom's lips curled into a smile as he saw it.

"Ever bound to a cause they do not believe in," Tom muttered, "how typical."

"It was ever thus," Harry agreed without enthusiasm.

"Once this is over we are going to have to have a talk about your attitude, Boy. You simply killed that man earlier without considering what I could have done, it was very inconsiderate," Tom complained as they crept round the corner of another tent.

"I didn't kill him. Goodness knows you should be able to tell when it's a stasis charm by now. By the time he wakes this will be finished," Harry explained, peering down the pathway between the tents, checking that there was no-one coming.

Tom paused for a moment, "You are right. I should have known. Then again the point is that no-one should know. It is heartening to have another demonstration though."

"Mmm," Harry said. His hand slipped out of the cloak as he gestured Tom forwards for the final dash to Malfoy's pavilion.

The cloth was, of course, bespelled, charmed and warded to within an inch of its life. The air around it fizzed as Tom drew his hand across it. "This might be problematic." The sun was rising and the tents around them seemed to glow as it touched the scarlet and gold. A long, deep note sounded from within the maze of tents a horn was blown, the noise echoing out over the camp. Tom set his wand against the fabric and began to work with feverish speed.

Harry stepped into the tent first. The room was surprisingly plain. The only ornamentation was a single long, black table on which lay sprawled three maps, one of the surrounding countryside; a second of France as a whole, and a third of Europe. The rest of the room was bare save for the two doors which led from it. Tom roughly sealed the rent he had slashed in the wards, allowing the stitching to close.

" _Point me._ " The wand he had taken from the younger soldier spun in Harry's hand and he took the left-hand door.

It opened to reveal a long, low passageway wide enough for five men to walk abreast. The floor was covered with cool, grey, flagstones. Doors led off from either side as it curled round and upwards. Harry opened the first door. It opened onto a garden where starlight shone down on rich purple flowers and the scent of spring hung in the air. There was no-one there, though they could hear a fountain playing somewhere behind a maze of hedges. " _Hominum revelio._ " There was no answering dance of light, Harry stepped back and closed the door.

Tom pushed open the next. The "point me" spell was failing in the corridor, spinning uselessly. The door swung back and the cool spray of the ocean splashed against their faces. Waves roared below a cliff of black basalt and yellowed grasses rippled in a sea-borne gale. "What is the purpose of these rooms? This is strange magic."

Harry nodded and pressed his palm against the brass plate of the next door, "Who knows? Maybe indulgence?" The wood creaked and the soft light of early morning shone down into the cloister of an Italian monastery where red brick walls were flushed with sunlight and thick, dark shadows sprawled over the well-watered grass.

"Onwards and upwards then," Tom said and they passed on, checking room after room for any sign of Malfoy, or any other living person. At last they reached a great door of blackened wood, oddly out of place between the fluttering canvas walls.

They hesitated for a moment and then Harry reached up, grasped the knocker and struck it against the wood three times. The noise boomed and echoed. Tom sneered at the enchantment. They waited in silence and then the doors swung smoothly open.

"Do come in, gentlemen," called a voice. They stepped through, wands rising simultaneously to strike. The footman, dressed in black and silver, froze. His eyes widened as two bolts of light hit him in the chest: one red, one green.

"Was that necessary?" Harry asked, stepping over the corpse. "Once again you've killed someone who could have been of use."

"He might have tried to raise the alarm, or given a warning," Tom said casually. "What would be the point in a hunt when the outcome was certain?"

"Success. This isn't about fun, Riddle," Harry murmured, looking around the room. It was a typical atrium. A small, square pool of rainwater lay between the Roman columns which lined the room. The roof opened revealing a sky where the purple and blue of night were slowly fading. A single rectangular door of bronze stood at the far end. They marched forwards and pushed open the doors as one and into another corridor.

_"Hominum revelio_ ," Tom incanted. A spark of light leapt from his wand flowing down the corridor and through a side door. They walked forwards and Harry drew back the cloak's hood and veil, blasted the door from its hinges and strode through the dust into the room.

Malfoy was seated at a desk, quill in hand. A long, ermine trimmed, black cloak wrapped around his shoulders. He looked up, face illuminated in the dawn light shining through a diamond paned window his hand reaching for his wand.

_"Expelliarmus,_ " Harry said, the red spell striking Malfoy in the chest as the elderly wizard's hand began to close on the wand. Harry caught it with ease. He sheathed the soldier's wand in exchange for the blackthorn wand. "Hello Malfoy."

Malfoy made as if to stand up, but his legs failed him and he fell back into his chair, his grey eyes bulging, "You …"

"Draco, it has been too long," Tom purred, his eyes fixed on the Minister as if he were prey.

"Voldemort?" Malfoy croaked, his right hand reaching for his chest.

"In the flesh … what's wrong with you boy? Sit up when I am talking to you!" Tom ordered, before a terrible thought striking him.

Malfoy's lips twitched in a smile. "See you in hell, my lord," he said, voice scratched and rasping before he slumped forwards over his desk, hand over his heart.

Tom stared in shock, "He just died?"

Harry cast a diagnostics charm. "It would seem so."

Tom's face twisted in a snarl, " _Avada kedavra_!" The green light hit the body without any effect. "I can't believe it. How dare he?"

Harry chuckled. The laughter rose, until he was panting, kneeling on the floor, tears rolling down his face. Tom stared at him in concern. At last the giggling subsided and Harry wiped away the tears. "Everything ends. Let us go."

They left, crossed the atrium and began to spiral back down the corridor between the flapping canvas walls. Then door swung open and a tall, middle-aged blonde lady strode in, soldiers surrounding her. They skidded to a halt, wands poised. There was a thumping from the other end of the corridor and a fresh group of warriors filled the other end of the corridor.

"Good morning," Tom said with a faint nod towards her, "I do not believe I have had the pleasure."

"Livia Malfoy. I suggest you, and your companion surrender your weapons now," she said, her voice flat and without inflection. "Don't try and fight Mr Potter, you can't win."

"Madame Malfoy, such a pleasure, I should have recognised you. If only the circumstances could have been less unpleasant," Tom replied smoothly. His eyes scanned the corridor for possibilities as the soldiers lined up around her. The first rank knelt, the second and third aimed through the gaps between one another.

"Who are you? I would know before you die. I do not suppose you wish to deny assassinating my grandfather."

"Not my doing. I would have been delighted to, but he died, tragically, of a heart attack," Tom said, before pausing for an instant, "You are the inside source! This was a coup! No wonder you are hear so fast. I should have guessed. Congratulations."

"I ask you for the last time, who are you?" She demanded, pale skin flushed with pink for an instant.

"I am Lord Voldemort," Tom said as he backed slowly towards one of the doors.

Livia smiled thinly, "Grandfather would be glad to hear that his sacrifice brought you to your long awaited end. Kill them."

Harry and Tom leapt sideways, rolling through the door to their left. The waves roared below them. The wind tussled their hair as they landed on the cliff top. _"Colloportus_!" Harry cried, and the doorway flashed for an instant before the air around it ripped open and the soldiers poured through. Livia stood some way behind them.

Harry and Tom retreated, back to back, wands drawn. The soldiers fanned out around them. Tom reached up, but his hand brushed against the ceiling. The sky was merely painted on to the canvas. He flicked out his wand, and a jet of fire leapt outwards. The soldiers summoned shields and water, cancelling out the blast with ease. Jets of light shot towards them. Tom raised a shield as Harry struck. Spells flew to and fro, blistering the air.

Tom harnessed the wind. It bowled over a handful of the red robed soldiers. Then he let the spell fall as a handful of killing curses forced Tom to rip clods of earth from the ground to block the attack. Harry slashed his wand and the fallen clumps of earth and grass transformed into ravens that blocked the soldiers' line of sight for a moment before they were struck down by bolts of blue and red light.

A soldier screamed as he was thrown over the cliff and down to the rocks far below. Tom began to edge sideways, intending to use the power of flight. Livia's wand flicked out and the sea rose in a giant swell to just below the lip of the cliff, blocking escape. He threw a severing charm out over the water, hoping that it would cut a hole in the tent. The spell rebounded, before being suppressed by two of the soldiers.

"Surrender. Face the end with dignity," Livia called out triumphantly, above the howling wind. She held up her hand to stop the attack. "Your time has passed, my lords."

"Not bloody likely," Harry spat, "not to you."

"While my colleague is a touch uncouth I fear I must agree with him," Tom said taking the opportunity to let his robes fade back from red to black. He plucked a few strands of the wind letting them billow around him under the dark sky. "You have betrayed your Grandfather. Do not raise your hand against the only ones who can help you keep your new throne."

Livia laughed, a deep, rich, intoxicating sound. "You couldn't keep your own throne. Don't presume to lecture me." Tom flung a bolt of eldritch fire towards her. The soldiers turned it aside and it burn into the grass, purple tongues lapping over the yellow blades.

Tom raised his hand and warriors of fire strode from the spell. They carried flickering blades and they stood side by side with the two wizards. "I will not die. I will not fall. I AM Lord Voldemort!" He almost screamed the words. His eyes flashed red as he flung himself back into the battle. Killing curses flashed from his wand as he scythed down soldiers like wheat before the reaper.

Harry spun around him, on all sides at once. His shields blocked spells that would have torn through houses. Volleys of spells hammered against silver defences. Still he was slowing. Blood trickled from a gash which ran down his chest, staining the shirt. It had been made by the remnants of a spell which had sliced through a solid lump of basalt summoned from below the cliff.

Tom launched an _imperius_ at a soldier, but the man was petrified by his companions before he could do any harm. They rolled him to one side, earth flew up from blasting curses cast by a tight-knit knot of soldiers. Three soldiers were chanting, wands touching as water flowed towards them. It gathered into a seething mass of liquid tentacles.

Harry drew a circle in the air. A wall of earth froze in place between them and the main body of the soldiers. Tentacles lashed out towards them only to be cut down with fire before Harry landed a hit: a flesh eating curse burnt away a soldier's face. The wall fell under concerted blasting hexes, but the swirling water was formless once more.

Pale warriors of fire hacked and slashed their way among the soldiers. For a time it seemed that the tide might be turned, but it was the last flickering of a candle before the night swamps all. Tom and Harry spun around one another; cloak, coat and robes billowed. The air rippled under the spells. Then Harry ducked under Tom's arm to deflect a blow. His hand brushing on Tom's arm and Tom whipped round.

_"Avada Kedavra_!" Time slowed as the green bolt of light left Tom's wand. Harry turned, eyes closing as the spell approached. Peace falling over his face. It struck him just below the heart and he fell backwards, crumpling to the ground. The air flashed, green light exploding outwards and Tom fell beside him, frozen in the moment.

There was silence. The flaming figures curled inwards upon themselves, vanishing. The soldiers stood still, hardly daring to breath. Many lay groaning staining the earth with blood. Livia was the first to advance and the soldiers followed her lead.

"Check them," she ordered one of her followers, keeping her wand trained on the bodies.

One of the red robed warriors, a man with a mane of golden hair, cast a series of charms, "Nothing ma'am. They're dead."

"It goes against the legends though … that wand, give it to me," she ordered pointing at the wand Harry still clasped. The man handed it to her and she turned the blackthorn stick over in her fingers, "this was my grandfather's check him for any other wands, he would not have come here unarmed."

They rifled through his pockets at last drawing out the holly and phoenix feather wand, she examined it slowly. "According to the old stories this wand protected Potter from attempts to harm him by the dark lord … why wouldn't he be using it? Particularly this time?" She frowned. "There is something about this I do not trust."

"We could cut their throats if you're not certain, ma'am," one suggested.

She shook her head, "They were great once. Take them back to Britain. Send them to the Department of Mysteries. Tell them to dispose of the bodies with all due honour. They will know what to do. Grandfather long planned for this. Even if they have planned some way to guard against bodily death that should dispose of them for good."

She turned away, striding back towards the doorway into the rest of the pavilion. "Get me the High Council on the mirrors, and Stuttgart too. We have a war to stop before it gets us all killed." She ran a hand through her hair, turning to the lieutenant in charge of the unit, "Let them know we will not back down. We are negotiating from a position of strength. Let them know we will co-operate with them to destroy the goblin armies."

* * *

_The Department of Mysteries_

The two, black biers were carried slowly down the long ebony corridor towards the turning chamber. The bodies upon them were clad in simple, black robes, wands laid upon their breasts, clasped in cold, stiff hands. The lilting music of panpipes filled the air, driving back the spirits of the dead. Blue fires burnt along the walls. The head of the department led the funeral procession of Britain's one and only king and his nemisis towards the chamber of the Veil.


	26. Epilogue

**Played**

The slow beat of drums echoed down the long, black corridor. Three witches and three wizards, robed and hooded in black velvet carried each of the biers upon their shoulders. As a mark of respect for the dead their wands were sheathed in ornate, glossy scabbards of black dragonhide. Lilies lay around the pair, thick, white petals brushing against the dark robes. Under the head of the younger lay a neatly rolled cloak of silvery, flowing material which shifted like water.

Blue flames burnt along the walls in ancient, corroded, bronze dishes, casting long, twisting shadows. Behind and before the procession strode two pipers, clad in queer long coats, one red and yellow, the other in silver and green, their feet were bare and they walked without sound. They were gaunt and tall with long nimble fingers which flickered over the fingering of the lilting pan-pipes. The master of ceremonies led them all, a long staff of twisted yew tipped with jagged lump of obsidian in his hand, thumping on the smooth floor.

A low humming surrounded them and then the bearers began to chant slowly, in time to the rhythm of their steps:

"I'll sing you nine O,

Green grow the rushes O.

What is your nine O?

"Nine for the nine bright shiners,

Eight for the eight noble lords,

Seven for the seven stars in the sky,

Six for the six proud walkers,

Five for the symbol at your door,

Four for the Founders,

Three for the rivals,

Two, two, the lily-white boys,

Clothed all in green O,

One is one, and all alone,

And ever more _must_ be so."

Their voices rose in harmony, ringing out as they advanced down the hall and the great black, seamless doors before them melted away, parting like mist before them as they entered a large round chamber with a black marble floor, so finely polished that it might have been dark, still water. Candles hung in the air, cool blue flames casting unwavering light. The master of ceremonies shut the door behind them and the room spun about them in a whirl of flame and dark doorways.

There was a soft sigh, lost in the whirl of doorways and a long, pale hand tightened on a wand. The room spun to a stop and the master of ceremonies stepped forward, raising his staff. He slammed it down on the floor and silver rivulets of power flickered from its base across the stones. "Locus Mortis: exhibe te."

A single door slid back smoothly, opening the way into an amphitheatre like chamber in the middle of which stood a worn stone archway engraved with ancient runes. He turned back to the procession, "We come to the last doorway …"

"I do not think that I have ever had the pleasure of attending my own funeral before. For some reason they very rarely hold them," said a cold, amused voice, "I _am_ glad to see things are being done in style though."

Heads turned, hands stretching towards wands. Tom stood smoothly, stretching his limb, rolling his shoulders in one swift movement. Harry rolled from his bier, grabbing the invisibility cloak, the orange pollen of the lilies smearing over his robes. His wand flicked out and a semi-circular blast of silver struck out from its tip striking the procession at chest height, hurling them to the ground. Tom leapt as the bearers collapsed under the blast, landing nimbly on the ground, twisting serpent-like to face the fallen.

One of them groaned, rolling slightly, disorientated. "And that's why a fast draw wins the day," said Harry, turning away. "I can't say I expected that to work Riddle."

"If the stasis charm can operate with a temporal facet there was no reason a spatial charm could not be imposed," Tom replied, shrugging as he turned towards the door which was filled with a pale grey light.

"I meant I didn't expect us to actually get here at all," Harry said, running a hand through his hair, still wild despite the best efforts of the undertakers. "You're lucky she didn't have us dumped into the channel or burnt."

"Harry, Harry, Harry, someday you really must learn that when I make a plan it works ..."

"Occasionally," Harry interrupted.

Tom frowned, "Normally. In any case, compulsion charms and an enthusiastic, weak willed lieutenant can do a great deal to help."

Harry slapped his hand against his forehead. "I should have guessed you'd have done something like that. He'll be okay?"

"I left him to wake up in a field in northern France between a couple of very charming peasants. He will probably have a lovely time. I pay my debts," Tom said simply as they walked through the door and down the steps of the chamber towards the whispering veil. "Now would you mind buying me some time? The magic needed is a little delicate and I only had a day to study the books Stuttgart had on the matter."

"My pleasure," said Harry, turning back to the door, sweeping his wand towards it, sending it slamming back into its frame. He frowned. "I'm really going to miss that coat." He slashed the holly and phoenix feather back and forward, barring the door with rods of slowly burning fire before turning to the other doors which ran around the room.

Tom knelt at the bottom of the dais inking runes onto the stone in his blood. "Do you want a wager on how long the Unspeakables will take to start arriving?"

"Not really, you were their boss once upon a time," Harry said as he cast a simple anti-apparation jinx, following it up with further charms. The Veil whispered, the ragged cloth which hung suspended in the archway twisting and writing as Tom worked.

There was a crash from the doorway and the room shook with the blow. Harry felt it in the floor, a deep booming crash. He raised his wand, placing a locking charm upon the door. There was a wave of force against it and the counterspell ripped it apart. The door exploded, slivers of dark wood flying through the air. Harry raised his wand and the foot long splinters slid away from the two of them, landing harmlessly around the chamber. Dust billowed in from beyond. Harry staggered backwards.

"That was one hell of a counter-strike," he said, kneeling on the floor, "either they've got spells the like of which I've never seen or there are a lot of them out there."

"Quiet would be a wonderful thing," Tom muttered, "I thought I told you to keep them out."

"They won't be getting through there in a hurry. I think they brought down the roof of the chamber out there," Harry replied, heaving himself up, "they'll have to go around."

Tom inscribed the last rune and the Veil shifted slowly, fluttering in a soft breeze. The smell of heather and night air filled the room, there was a soft, strange bird call from beyond and ghostly starlight shone through the ragged cloth. "Do you trust me?" He asked.

"Not as far as I can throw you," Harry said turning towards the Veil slinging the invisibility cloak around his shoulders.

"Good, that's why we are going to be walking," Tom said with a smile.

And together they walked up the steps to the Veil and towards the threshold. Torches flared up around the chamber and somewhere in the depths of the Ministry a bell tolled.

They paused upon the border for a moment. Tom looked across to Harry for a moment, dark eyes meeting green. "Of course the oath only binds me not to seek a kingdom in _this_ world ..." He smiled and with a tug pulled Harry with him through the veil.

The Unspeakables broke into the chamber as the spells vanished from the doors, hooded in midnight blue robes with silver masks. The sound of laughter echoed faintly around them as the dried blood around the dais crumbled away.

Harry looked behind them, there was a pool of still, dark water at their feet and before them stretched a long, white road. Unknown stars sung above them and far away a shooting star raced across the black expanse of the sky.

They had passed from the world of men.

* * *

**THE END**

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked the story (or at least got this far) please leave a review, I would be interested to hear your thoughts.
> 
> Well that really is the end, I promise, I'm not lying this time.
> 
> I was hoping that someone might guess, but I guess the clues were too slight. Most major things in this story have been foreshadowed. In this case the last few chapters, Arabella's discussion with Tom about portals when leaving Altewald, the battle of Stuttgart and the chapter dealing with Voldemort's resurrection all gave hints towards this. When Harry brushed Tom's arm in the last chapter that was the signal for them to activate the plan. They had realised that given that it was probably a set up their chances of avoiding defeat were slim and both wanted to escape the world they had become trapped in.
> 
> Mustaphar, as I'm sure you've guessed, used the explosive bracelet placed on his wrist by the guards to blow the greater daemon's head off and despite missing a hand is still wandering somewhere.
> 
> As to Arabella, it might be possible that she escaped the forces in the dimension she was pushed into, given that so many had flooded into the city ... but it seems unlikely.
> 
> Sorry to all of you who felt that the end was an anti-climax. It was meant to be. Ultimately part of the point of this story was that Harry and Tom were outdated, they were exceptionally powerful, but they were powerful individuals and the age of heroes had ended, they were relics who had outlived their time. In the end they couldn't go out in a blaze of glory.
> 
> There is now a sequel: Traveller.


End file.
